


All of Nirn's a Stage

by TrickstersHeir



Series: The Theatre Student Who Is Very Much Not Cut Out For This [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Community: skyrimkinkmeme, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Gen, Humor, Multi, Sexual Humor, Skyrim Kink Meme, Swearing, background lydia/aela
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2018-02-20 13:09:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 26
Words: 48,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2430005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrickstersHeir/pseuds/TrickstersHeir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some are thrown into an alternate reality where they end up being an ancient legend destined to save the said world from a great evil and therefore have greatness thrust upon them. Mitchell's life is about to get much more interesting, even if he never drinks tequila again.</p><p>for the skyrim kink meme prompt of a modern person as the dragonborn</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not In Improv Anymore...

Mitchell was looking for Narnia when he stumbled across Tamriel. Not to imply that it was a serious mission. One too many tequila shots with his cousins had been the culprit behind the quest. Like a drunken tool, he automatically agreed when his cousins proposed the idea. None of them ever actually expected to find anything. It was just a dumb game, take another drink every time you don't find something! And yet, here he was.   
  
The last thing Mitch remembered was opening up a weird looking door in the lodge's attic. Next thing he new was being suddenly jolted awake by a bump in the road. "Mother of fuck!" He exclaimed, jumping up a bit.   
  
"What in the hell am I doing here?" He hissed, holding his head in his rope-bound hands. "I am never doing shots with those pricks again. I feel like I've been wrecked by a half ton, jaysus."   
  
The man who sat across from him in the cart looked slightly alarmed. "Are you alright, stranger?" He asked carefully, taken off guard by the foreigner's sudden shouting.   
  
At least, the man looked foreign. With short but curly brown hair, tan skin, sharp blue eyes, and a strange black rectangular facial device he wore over them. His clothes also indicated someone who wasn't from around Skyrim. Strange pants of a dark blue material, with a thin short tunic and a hooded jacket with strings attached to it.   
  
"Very fuckin' best." Growled Mitchell sardonically at the blond haired stranger who looked like Thor's long lost twin.   
  
"Easy, friend. No need to get hostile." The stranger tried the reassure. "You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush. Same as us, and that thief over there."  
  
Before Mitchell could ask where he was, the thief spoke up. "Damn you Stormcloaks. Skyrim was fine until you came along!"  
  
He turned to Mitchell. "You there! You and me, we shouldn't be here. It's these damn Stormcloaks the empire wants."  
  
"What the fuck's a Stormcloak?" Asked Mitchell flatly.   
  
He glanced at the man bound up and gagged next to him. "And who's this motherfucker? The one dressed like fucking Thorin or some shit."   
  
The bound man looked at him, an unreadable expression on his face. The man across from Mitch looked insulted at his words. "Watch what you say! You are speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!" He declared.  
  
"Thank you, Davos." Muttered Mitch, rolling his eyes. "Personally more of Daenerys guy myself."  
  
Mitch shook his head, looking to the sky as the thief started to freak out. Quickly the blond engaged him in a conversation, and Mitch could ignore the both of them in favour of staring ahead. He idly tried to break his binds but the rope was too strong. It was times like this he missed his pocketknife.   
  
As the convoy rolled to a stop, everyone was ordered off of the wagons and instructed to proceed to the chopping block by name. One by one they proceeded. Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm. Ralof of Riverwood. Lokir of Rokirstead. Mitch watched in shock as Lokir took off running, only to be shot down by one well placed arrow. "Unholy fucker of mothers." He whispered in terror.   
  
"You, step forth." Instructed the Captain.   
  
Mitch found himself obeying quickly. "Who are you?" Asked the man.   
  
"Mitchell Xavier. Of Canada. Who is really hungover right now and just wants to get the fuck back home and off of this shit trip." Mitchell replied, coming to the conclusion that this had to be a dream.   
  
The Captain barked at him to watch his tongue. The man looked hesitant. "He's not on the list."   
  
"Forget the list, he goes to the block." Ordered the Captain icily.   
  
"By your orders, Captain. My apologies, friend." The man attempted to console Mitch, but found nothing comforting to utter.   
  
"Fuck it, it ain't your fault." Replied Mitch as he walked forward. "Besides, this is probably just a dream. I'll wake up as soon as I bite the dust. Pull an Inception." 

Mitch listened to the General's tirade about the war, and the Priestess's opening about some gods. As the priestess was interrupted by the death-seeking rebel, who on the block said aloud "My ancestors are smiling on me, Imperials. Can you say the same?"  
  
"Not even a guillotine. My French ancestors are crying in shame." Mitch drawled.   
  
The rebel's head was sliced off. Mitchell had to use all of his willpower to not puke everywhere. Another noise, the same one that had rung out before the first execution, distracted the group briefly before the Captain ordered Mitch to the block. Mitch slapped himself across the face with his hands. "Ow, fuck! Not a dream then!"  
  
The Captain yelled at him in aggravation. "Okay, Jesus Christ! I'm fucking going!" He shouted back.  
  
Mitch walked to the chopping block, scared shitless and praying for someone or something to intervene. All he could think to do was stall, so stall he did. "Isn't it illegal to execute someone without proof that they did shit? That's fucking murder!" He said, turning to face the General. "Is it a crime to cross a goddamn border? I demand to speak to my lawyer!"  
  
The General gave him a strange look. "On the block, Prisoner. Stop spewing your nonsense."   
  
Before anything else could happen, a giant fucking dragon landed on the nearest tower. And that was when shit truly hit the fan.   
  
"Come on, the gods won't give us another chance!" Shouted Ralof to Mitchell as all hell broke lose.  
  
Mitch scrambled to his feet as fire caught around him. He ran like the wind, chasing after Ralof while trying to not hyperventilate. Quickly the two entered into the Keep. Once inside, Mitchell let himself freak out. "Holy fucking tits! Dragons! An actual fucking dragon!" His terror was replaced by a sudden giddiness. "It's all Targaryen up in this bitch!"  
  
Ralof and Ulfric both bore incredulous expressions on their faces as Mitchell exclaimed "I fucking love dragons!"


	2. Out of the Frying Pan

Getting out of Helgen was easier in theory.   
  
In theory, the dragon fire had never almost set Mitchell alight as he darted right behind Ralof. In theory Mitchell never let out a high pitched shriek as his ass came close to being a dragon's barbecue. In theory it was more of a "run from controlled flames," not "FUCKING RUN THIS SHIT IS LIKE NAPALM!" So the theory was definitely wrong. Really, he should've expected this. In his defense, he did feel like he was had been hit by a bus from his hangover and it was throwing off of his balance. He stumbled as he chased after the blond, almost face planting right into his back.   
  
"Why are you not fucking running?!" Demanded Mitchell.   
  
In front of them stood the man who had been in front of the cart with the captain. Mitch didn't see the point to this. "We are getting out, Hadvar!" Exclaimed Ralof forcefully. "You're not stopping us this time!"   
  
Ralof started running again, onward to the tower. He turned back to see if Mitchell was still following him. To his alarm, the man was yanking Hadvar along with a fierce determination as he sprinted forward. "What in the name of Talos are you doing?!" Demanded Ralof as Mitchell reached the tower and managed to duck inside before a blast of fire rained down.   
  
"You said it yourself earlier, that dragon is fucking deadly." Mitch panted out. "People are going to die today, he doesn't have to be on the list. I don't give a flying fuck if he's on the other side of your war."   
  
Ralof hesitated. "Besides, isn't this place run by these lads? It'd be helpful to have him on our side if we run into more of his side." Persuaded Mitchell with all of his high school debate team skills.   
  
Ralof wasn't about to argue with his logic, not when there was a dragon lurking outside. "Alright, I agree. Now let me unbind your hands, and we'll go."   
\---  
Of all things it could've been, it just had to be spiders. It couldn't have been bears, or wolves, or coyotes. Really, all Mitch wanted was something that didn't make him want to piss himself and run away screaming. Was that too much to ask? He could shoot a coyote with his newly acquired bow no problem, but a giant spider? That shit wasn't about to happen. Mitch elected to let Hadvar rectify the problem while he cowered in fear behind Ralof.  
  
"I don't like them either." Confessed Ralof when they were finally out of the cave. "Too many eyes, you know?"  
  
"Too many eyes and too many fucking legs. Spiders are greasy fuckers." Mitch replied, shuddering.   
  
The group noticed the dragon soaring far off in the distance. Mitch couldn't tell where it was headed. He felt a chill crawl up his spine. "So, where do we go to next? Because I really need to figure out how to get back home."  
  
"You said you were from Canada." Said Hadvar. "I confess, I have never heard of the place. Is it in Solthstiem?"   
  
"Fuck, nah. North America. Jesus fuck, what is this place called anyways?" Asked Mitch, rubbing his temples.   
  
"Skyrim." Replied Ralof. "You must be far from home if you haven't heard of it."  
  
"I wouldn't be surprised if I were in a whole new goddamn universe from what I've seen." Mitch muttered. "Is there anyone of specific high authority I could talk to? Like a Gandal- never mind, you wouldn't get the reference. Is there some high wizard I can speak to?"   
  
Hadvar looked thoughtful for a moment. "There is a court wizard in Whiterun, not far from Riverwood. Someone will have to tell Jarl Balgruuf about what happened in Helgen. You could speak the the wizard while you're there reporting to him."   
  
"Great, will do." Mitch nodded in agreement.  
  
"Where's Whiterun? And can you take me there? Because I'm gonna be so fucking lost without some sort of guide that it'll be like walking around with my head up my own asshole."


	3. The Wizard and I

Ralof and Hadvar had taken Mitch as far as the Whiterun stables, then telling him where to go from there. Mitch thanked the profusely for their help. With any luck, the wizard would have him back home in a snap. 

* * *

  
Mitchell discovered that by some miracle his phone was still working, right as he was walking past the little stream-encircled pavilion to get to Dragonsreach. From his jeans pocket came a loud blast of the opening of Carry On My Wayward Son, making him jump a bit. He quickly scrambled to pull the phone from his pocket and answer the text he had just received from his younger brother.   
  
 _-Gabe: yo where r u? Pls don't say drunk road trip w/Marc again  
-Mitch: I fucked up. Gonna sound fuckin insane. I'll call u later, explain it.   
-Mitch: Btw feed Bubbles for me!  
-Gabe: dude get ur shit together >:( they're makin me babysit sals kids alone  
-Gabe: K, call me later_   
  
When he finished, Mitchell checked the rest of his settings.  _Who knew alternate universes had four bars of service? And his battery was at 98 percent, same as it had been when he was still at the lodge! It was 9 am on Saturday morning back home! The wifi was excellent!_  Mitchell felt his heart beat a little faster. He'd be fine as long as he had wifi. Now all Skyrim needed was a Tim's that he could stop at and get a double double.  
  
He gave a little whoop of victory as he put away his phone once more. "Hell yeah damn right hell fucking yes!" He sang as he skipped up the steps to Dragonsreach.   
  
The enthusiastic Talos worshipper who had been standing off to the side preaching had fallen completely silent. "About damn time." Thought a random guard who had watched the occurrence. 

* * *

  
"So the Jarl thinks you can be of assistance?" Asked Farengar, surveying Mitchell.   
  
Mitchell shrugged, finally taking off his wrap-around sunglasses and tucking them in his shirt. "Apparently," he replied.   
  
"I do need someone to fetch me the dragonstone from Bleak Falls Barrow. It's a basic job, go in and risk your life against countless draugr to find something that may or may not exist." Explained Farengar cheerily.  
  
Mitchell looked at him. "You're dickin me, aren't ya?"   
  
Farengar shook his head. "I can assure you I am not 'dicking you,' as you put it."  
  
Mitchell let out a sigh of aggravation. "Listen, can you make portals? To like other universes? Because long story short, I fell through one in my own universe when I was drunker than fuck and now I really need to get home."  
  
Farengar looked at the Mitch skeptically. "I'm afraid portals to other worlds aren't my division. However, if you retrieved the dragonstone for me, I would be happy to give you my assistance in finding your way home. Chop chop, we haven't got all day!"  
  
The wizard made a little sweeping gesture. Mitch ran a hand through his messy curls. "You can't honestly expect me, a person who comes from another fuckin' world, with no idea of where to go or how to fight, to go alone into a fuckin' cave full of monsters in search for something that may not  _exist?"_    
  
Mitch only realized he was using one of his stage projection voices after he had finished his rant. It certainly wasn't loud enough to echo throughout the entire castle, but it did enough to make the wizard back up a bit. Mitch flushed immediately.   
  
"Shit, sorry, that was rude of me. Look, is there anyway I can get a travelling companion or guide that can help me through Bleak Falls Barrow?" Mitch asked more softly. "I just don't wanna go it alone, not when I've only been in Skyrim for a day."   
  
He flashed the wizard his finest kicked puppy eyes. The wizard blinked. "I could loan you coin to hire one of the Companions at Jorrvaskar, provided you aid me further in my research once you return. It will be most interesting to perform some experiments with you."   
  
Farengar disappeared off into a side room, reappearing with a bag full of golden coins. "This should be enough to get you a contract."   
  
Mitch shoved it into his pocket. "Thanks, I doubt they'd accept my credit card." 

The Canadian turned to leave, before pausing and pulling out his phone. "Almost forgot." He laughed awkwardly, dialing his brothers number and sitting down in the nearest bench.   
  
Farengar, intrigued by the strange box, moved closer and bent down to stare at it quizzically. Mitch raised a finger to his lip go shush the wizard's question. He soon heard his brother picking up and was overwhelmed with relief at hearing a voice from home again. He quickly lunged into his story, wanting to get it over and done with. Once he finally retold his tale, there was silence from the other end.   
  
"Well, it's not that I don't believe you, Mitch, it's just..." Gabriel trailed off.   
  
"Gabe, give me one video call to prove it to you. All I need is one." Mitch persuaded.   
  
Gabriel hesitated. "Fine, you have one video to prove to me you haven't been hitting the happy pills."   
  
Mitch hung up, switching to his video chat and calling back. "Farengar, c'mere for a sec."   
  
The wizard cocked his head to the left and stood beside Mitch, a look of absolute delight on his face when Gabriel appeared on the screen of Mitch's phone. "Gabe, meet Farengar Secret-Fire, the court wizard in Dragonsreach. Farengar, can you do some sort of spell to show my brother?"   
  
"Holy fucking shit." Stated Gabriel, look of disbelief on his face as he watch a small ball of fire appear in Farengar's hand. "Can't fake that shit in a chat."  
  
Mitch smirked. "I told you so."  
  
Gabriel rolled his eyes. "So how do I get you out of there? That portal you mentioned, where is it?"  
  
"In the attic." Mitch replied quickly. "But I don't think it's smart to come here. I don't want you to fall into the same situation I was in at Helgen. Just block off the attic so none of the kids get in."  
  
Gabriel frowned. "Mitch, I'm not letting you go off on an adventure to die without me. And you know Sara, she's gonna be pissed you fought monsters without her."  
  
"It's not safe," Mitchell insisted. "And I don't even know how to get back yet. I'm not sure if the portal I came out of is still there."   
  
Slowly but surely, Gabe caved. "Alright, and I'll show Mom and Dad this chat for proof that we aren't crazy. Just try not to get yourself killed, eh?"   
  
"Yeah, I'll try. I'd miss tormenting my pain in the ass little brother." Mitchell smiled. "Bye. Love you."  
  
"Love you too. Call me when you get out of the barrow."   
  
Mitch hung up, sticking his phone back in his pocket. "Thanks for being my proof."  
  
Farengar nodded. "When you come back, you must let me examine that device. It's quite fascinating. I would like to do some testing on it."   
  
"Hey, as long as you don't break it. Now, where's Jorrvaskr?"


	4. Adventure Time, C'mon Grab Your Companions

Finding Jorrvaskr was relatively easy, probably the easiest thing Mitch had done all day. All he had to do was take a right at the crazy guy spouting on about some god and then walk up the stairs to Asgard. Mitch took a moment from his thoughts to listen to the crazy priest as he ascended the steps. From the five seconds of sound he heard, he decided that he would never listen to that guy again. It wasn't healthy to get caught up in those obsessive religious types. Bad for the blood-pressure.  
  
Jorrvaskr was pleasantly warm, making Mitchell crack a small smile. For a moment he was taken back to his first time walking into Silver Lodge at the camp. A painful wave of nostalgia rushed over him, making the air catch in Mitchell's throat. He let out a little choked noise as he looked around.  _"Get a hold of yourself, you melancholic idiot."_  He thought to himself.  _"You have a job to do. Hire a companion and get it over with."_  
  
Forcing himself to take initiative, Mitch inhaled and stepped further into the building. He scanned the room, searching for the friendliest looking one he could find. Needless to say, there wasn't much luck. Everyone he saw in front of him looked battle-hardened and warlike enough to make William Wallace shit himself. Finding himself terrified to even open his mouth, Mitch froze on the spot.   
  
His saviour from his awkwardness came in the form of an armoured woman who approached him with a confident grin. "Looking for something?" She asked. "Or perhaps just lost?"   
  
Mitch had to use all of his will not to stutter. "I need to hire some help," He managed to choke out.  
  
"Easy, stranger. No need to look like a frightened rabbit." Aela soothed, smiling at Mitchell light-heartedly. "What sort of help do you need?"   
  
Mitch cleared his throat. "The court wizard wants me to retrieve the Dragonstone from Bleak Falls Barrow- but I'm not an adventurer so I need someone to come with me and kinda make sure I don't die. I've got the money to pay for it."   
  
Aela looked Mitch up and down, sizing up the Canadian. "Bleak Falls Barrow, eh? I won't ask how a foreigner was roped into that. I'll see what I can do for you."  
  
Aela turned away from him, moving to the left of the room. "Farkas! Vilkas!" She barked, causing two identical men with long dark hair to look up.   
  
Mitchell had to bite back a winter soldier remark. He couldn't exactly help the fact that that's what the war paint around Farkas' and Vilkas' eyes reminded him of. It was either that, a raccoon, or Sara after she forgot to wash out her liquid eyeliner. None were exactly "flattering comparisons."   
  
"What is it, Shield-Sister?" Asked Vilkas, approaching Mitch and Aela.   
  
"Our friend here needs help at Bleak Falls Barrow. Are you free to join him?" 

* * *

Mitchell hadn't been quite sure what to expect of the draugr. Everything he imagined had been based around Romero films and pop culture's zombie lore, leaving him to imagine rotting green corpses that shambled after him while moaning like cheap, undead whores. Something simple and dim-witted. What he got was most certainly not what he expected.   
  
"Jesus fucking CHRIST!" He screamed when the first one came charging towards him.   
  


* * *

  
  
Before that he had been happily searching any chests they came across to pick up a few septims and taking pictures of the ancient ruins on his phone. It was one of his greatest dreams come true, getting to explore ruins and learn more about the culture. He asked a lot of questions to Vilkas, who seemed a bit irritated with Mitch but answered them readily enough.   
  
"He's like an infant with his incessant questioning." Mused Vilkas while Mitch had been distracted by some carvings.   
  
"You heard his story, he's got good reasons." Replied Farkas, watching Mitch closely.   
  
"This is so fuc- JESUS FUCK!" Mitchell quickly dropped from an enthusiastic statement to a terrified scream as he stumbled into a pressure plate and a long stream of fire shot out at him.   
  
The Canadian was knocked flat on his ass, scrambling to get away from the blaze. His stare was fixated on the plate as Farkas helped him up. "What the in fuck is that?" Mitch asked breathlessly.   
  
Vilkas rolled his eyes. "It's just a pressure plate, whelp. Avoid them and you'll be fine."   
  
Mitch looked rather pale. "Noted." He said with a gulp.   
  


* * *

  
  
It wasn't too long after he hit the pressure plate that Mitch came across his first draugr. All of his imagined draugrs would've jumped out of a seventeenth story window when faced with the sight of the real thing. Mitchell reacted fast, with both his screaming and his fist coming up and punching the son of a bitch in the face on pure fight instinct. In the mere seconds it took for both Mitchell and the confused draugr to realize what the fuck just happened, Mitch had already managed to hide himself behind Farkas.   
  
Vilkas quickly sliced his sword through the draugr's rib cage, dispatching it with a single swipe. "It's gone, you can stop cowering." He said to Mitch, a smirk plastered on his face.   
  
Mitch peeked out from behind Farkas sheepishly. "Jesus, I was expecting some low budget b-movie zombies, not a goddamn white walker."   
  
Farkas looked over at Mitch, not understanding most of the words. "Is that something from your world?" He asked curiously.   
  
"Yeah. Wish I had my laptop here too. I could show you all of Game of Thrones so you'd get my references." Mitch laughed awkwardly.   
  
"Let's get on with it," Vilkas insisted with an unimpressed look. "We don't have all day."  
  
"Right."

* * *

 

Arvel the Swift made for the hills whenever Farkas and Vilkas managed to free him. He picked a bad day to run. Behind him were two fierce warriors and ahead lied several draugr. Weakened by the spider's venom, it only took a few hits from a draugr to end his life. Mitch forced himself to bite back yet another scream as he dropped down and searched for a small object that could fit the description he heard earlier.   
  
He found it quickly enough, catching up with Farkas and Vilkas. "The bandits at the front of the door were talking about a thing that Arvel had made off with." He explained. "It may come in handy, it may not. I'm betting on the former." 

* * *

  
  
"If the key has the code on it, then why is there a lock? That combination has to be a false one." Reasoned Vilkas. "If it was that easy then the maker had no reason to even make a door."  
  
Mitchell continued to examine the pattern on the claw. "No, no. This is brilliant. They're obviously trying to protect something. If a bandit came in without the key, they wouldn't be able to get through the door."  
  
"They could guess." Farkas pointed out.   
  
"No, but that's the brilliant part. There are three animals per wheel and three wheels. That makes twenty seven possible combinations. Without the claw, you have to try every single one. And it's not like that could even work, because the claw's the key component. No one's fingers could fit into the holes. It's like having both a keypad and an eye scanner. Anyone can fool a keypad, but an eye scanner is the fail safe."  
  
Mitch grinned like a maniac as the door started sliding down. "See? Without that key it would've taken us an hour at least to realize we were stuck."   
  
Farkas didn't understand the man's enthusiasm. It was only a door, after all. Mitch kept getting excited about the smallest of things, ones that even children found tedious. Mitch was intriguing, always cycling through terror, excitement, and sarcasm. He was an enigma to the warrior, a puzzle Farkas couldn't quite comprehend.   
  
"C'mon, Farengar won't sit around waiting forever!"  
  
Mitch stepped forward to meet whatever lied ahead.   
  


* * *

  
  
What lied ahead was a large stone wall, with hieroglyphic-like carvings etched into it's otherwise smooth surface. Mitch felt compelled to approach it as the three men entered further into the main chamber. He felt like a moth, fluttering towards a flame. He began drifting away from the twins ever so slowly. Mitch's vision blurred at the edges as he drew closer. His eyes were locked on the etchings as he tentatively raised a hand to the wall.   
  
It was cool under his fingers at first, like a thin layer of frost on a car windshield. The stone did not remain that way. It quickly heated, burning against Mitchell's fingertips. He felt a wave like lightning crash over him as Farkas and Vilkas's voices faded behind him and one word resonated throughout his entire being  _\- FUS!_

* * *

When Mitchell awoke, he was propped against the wall he had just been standing in front of with a pounding migraine and shaky sight. He let out a loud groan and gently rested his head back against the cool stone. "What in the fuck happened?" He asked, vision slowly swimming back into focus.   
  
"You passed out when you touched the wall. When we came forward to check on you, a draugr overlord leapt out of his resting place." Vilkas gestured down to the heap of rotting flesh and broken bones besides the stone slab.   
  
"Did you get the dragonstone?" Asked Mitch, massaging his temples and wincing.   
  
Farkas held aloft the stone, gently handing it to Mitch. The Companion looked as concerned as one can look when covered in fierce black war paint. "You alright? You hit your head pretty hard when you collapsed."  
  
"Yeah, but I think my hangover's making an encore performance." Mitch replied. "I don't have a concussion, so that's good. Just need a Advi- fuck. Never mind. Forgot what fucking world I was in."   
  
Farkas frowned, before rummaging through a small pouch and coming up with a vial of red liquid. "Here, drink this. It's a healing potion."   
  
Mitchell gingerly took it and uncorked the top. He downed it in one go, surprised by the unexpectedly sweet taste of it. "Thanks," He said gratefully.   
  
Mitchell lifted himself up slowly, still feeling a burning in his chest as he walked on shaky legs. "Well, might as well get going. Farengar'll probably castrate me with one of his diamond things if we take much longer."   
  
Vilkas let out a resigned sigh as Mitchell tripped over a crack in the stone. He swiftly moved to catch the man and stabilize him. "Perhaps you should let Farkas carry the stone. You won't be getting home if you fall down the mountain side and break your neck."


	5. Mitchell the Dragon Slayer

Mitchell hated Jarl Balgruuf. In fact, he really hated Jarl Balgruuf. What sort of man sent a clearly inexperienced civilian with absolutely no knowledge of weapons or fighting to battle a gigantic fucking dragon? Definitely one who should not be in any position of power. Mitch had barely survived his first dragon attack and now he was supposed to join the Whiterun guards and face a second? He could only pray that when he was eventually mortally wounded that he would be able to hang on to life long enough to call Balgruuf a cunt for getting him killed. It was only fair. 

Mitch was crouched behind a large rock besides Irileth, his hunting bow clutched tightly in hand. His confidence was not exactly boosted by his lack of protection. What a sight he must have been, in his blue hoodie, worn out jeans, and an ill-fitting leather cuirass. He had never felt more out of place in his life. 

Fire blazed on the horizon. The air smelt of ash and burning flesh. The tower may once have stood proud before, but now it was no longer the case. It was covered in long talon gouges and black scorch marks. And though the dragon was nowhere to be seen, everyone present could feel it lurking, waiting. 

Irileth was the first to move when the dragon returned, charging forward with a battle cry. The guards fired arrow after arrow into the hide of the beast as it blasted fire at them relentlessly. Mitchell's heart pounded in his ears as he dodged the flames and tried to shoot at the dragon. He knocked another steel arrow in his bow, drawing it back to his lips and letting it fly. To his utter shock, this arrow actually lodged itself into the dragon's throat. To his terror, the dragon actually  _noticed._  

Mitchell stumbled backwards as the dragon landed in front of him. In that moment, he looked into the face of his death. And against every instinct in his body that screamed for him to run, he stayed planted to the spot as a burst of fire came crashing towards him. The cries that had surrounded him moments ago were drowned out by the singular mighty roar. Desperate and running on pure adrenaline, Mitchell knocked his final arrow.

The dragon let out a deafening cry as Mitchell's arrow lodged itself through it's eye. "DOVAHKIIN! NIID!"

Mitchell jumped back to avoid being hit by the corpse. It crumpled to the ground in a graceless heap, it's scales burning away and fluttering off in the wind like scraps of ripped paper as arrows clattered to the ground in piles. A blinding light flowed from the skeleton of the dragon, seeping under Mitchell's skin and into his bones. He felt fire flowing under his skin. Words danced throughout his mind in a tongue he could just barely understand but not comprehend. 

And just as soon as it had started, it stopped. Mitchell found himself on the ground in a daze, his bow dropped beside him. He was vaguely aware of Irileth approaching him cautiously with several guards. One who had lost his helmet looked completely enraptured by Mitchell. "By the gods," He breathed. "The legends are true. You are dragonborn!"

Mitchell looked up at the guard, terror evident in his wide blue eyes. "I don't know what the hell that is, but I really fucking don't want to be it!" He replied, beginning to hyperventilate.

* * *

 

By some merciful divine, Irileth had managed to calm Mitchell down from his panic attack very quickly. The guards were treated with a massive slap to their childhood tales of the fearless dragonborn as they watched the man sob into the Dunmeri housecarl's shoulder uncontrollably. To Irileth's credit, she managed to handle it with grace. The housecarl sat down on the ash-covered grass, stroking the panicking man's curly hair until his heart rate and breathing returned to normal. 

The walk back to Dragonsreach was filled with embarrassed apologies on Mitchell's behalf and hasty reassurances from Irileth that it was a perfectly reasonable reaction to break down after nearly being burnt to death and that he really didn't have to keep saying sorry.

Jarl Balgruuf was wide-eyed with relief when Irileth and Mitchell returned to the throne room covered in soot and still very much alive. "By the gods, is it really dead?" He asked.

"Yes, my Jarl." Irileth replied professionally. "The be-"

The Dunmer was cut off by a thunderous call that shook the palace to it's very foundations. Everyone froze at the words the resonated throughout the building like a bass line through speakers.  _"DOVAHKIIN!"_

Mitchell stared up at the ceiling, feeling his heart begin to pound faster once more. The same feeling that had washed over him in Bleak Falls Barrow now reared up once more. Every fibre of his being was being drawn to the sound, his instincts urging him to find the source. He moved his gaze from the ceiling and back to Balgruuf, who was watching him with a similar confusion. It was one of the guards who had been with them at the Western Watchtower who had finally spoken up. 

"My Jarl, I believe they're summoning  _him._ " 

All eyes locked on Mitchell, making him want to crumple into a small ball and roll under the table. Though his voice was barely above a whisper, the guard's words sounded clear throughout the throne room. "This man, it was his arrow that finally slayed the dragon. When the monster fell to the ground, he consumed it's soul. He is the dragonborn. There is no other answer." 

Mitchell's protest died before it could ever escape his lips. Jarl Balgruuf's eyes bore into him, making the man feel like a guilty child who'd just been caught misbehaving. "Look, all I know is I absorbed a very bright light when the fucker finally kicked the bucket. That's it! Please, I just want to find a way back home."

"Whatever answers you seek must lie with the Greybeards now." Balgruuf replied. "They are your best hope."

Mitchell felt like he was going to vomit. "Do you really think they can get me home?"

"I am unsure." Admitted Balgruuf. 

Mitch gulped, trying to find his voice. "I just want to get out of this mess." 

Something in his pitiful voice must've struck a chord with Balgruuf, for the Jarl stood from his throne, slowly approaching the younger man. 

"I know lad," He said softly, resting a hand on Mitch's shoulder comfortingly. "And the Greybeards may be able to help you find your way. You can rest here for the night, and leave in the morning for High Hrothgar."

Mitchell bit his lip, nodding. "Thank you, Jarl Balgruuf. I don't think I could ever repay you for this."

"You helped kill a dragon, son. That's more than enough."

Balgruuf lifted his hand off of Mitchell's shoulder. "For your services to the city and it's people, I name you Thane of Whiterun Hold, and gift to you this weapon from my personal armoury as your badge of office. As well, Lydia will be your personal housecarl. And if you can not find your way home, know that you may always come back and make a new one here." 


	6. Mother of the Dragon(born)

Arngeir had seen many winters come to pass in his time as a Greybeard. High Hrothgar was a place of peace, quiet, and contemplation. The conflicts of the rest of Skyrim were lost amid the harsh winds and thick snows of the mountain. This was a place of neutrality and pacifism. And when the tremors of the first dragon to fall's thu'um shook the very mountain to it's core, Arngeir knew it in his heart that the Greybeards could not turn away from this conflict any longer. The Dovahkiin had returned in a maelstrom of fire, and the blood would soon follow.  
  
Arngeir was unsure of who the Dovahkiin would be at first. He had reflected upon possible identities, though none were anywhere near close to the tall and lithe man that stumbled into High Hrothgar in strange garments while cursing at the cold. 

* * *

  
"My Thane, this is a holy place." Stated Lydia in amusement as she watched Mitchell shiver and swear bitterly. "I doubt the Greybeards will appreciate that language."   
  
The Canadian muttered something about giving them something to appreciate as he dried his glasses with a cloth from his pocket. However, what he muttered was in what he had called "French" and thus Lydia didn't quite understand it. From his tone of voice, it was not something pleasant. Perhaps it was better she didn't know.  
  
"So, now we find the Gandalf of this place and get me the fuck back to earth." Said Mitchell as he placed his glasses back on his nose. "Where do we start?"   
  
"In front of us, my Thane." Said Lydia with a shake of her head, gesturing to the the four men that stood ahead.  
  
"Oh, well that's awkward..." Mitch murmured, flushing. "My apologies, I didn't mean to insult your prestigious order, Mister...?" He trailed, looking to the man who stood slightly ahead of the rest.   
  
"Arngeir," Replied the Greybeard.   
  
"Right. Hey." Mitch greeted. "So, this is High Hrothgar? Nice place. I'm Mitchell, by the way. Mitchell Xavier. I'm a theater student. And Dragonborn, apparently."  
  
Arngeir barely stopped his mouth from dropping into a surprised 'o.' Of all the possible candidates for the title of Dragonborn, it turned out to be a lanky man with a tendency to say 'fuck' after every other sentence.  _Akatosh preserve them all._

* * *

 

 

Judging from his track record so far, Mitchell had assumed the Greybeards were going to send him out on a quest to fetch some inane artifact for them or do some random favor before Arngeir deemed him worthy to talk to them about going home. Which, being said, would not be that bad with him now having Lydia to protect him. It would just be incredibly frustrating. So it came as a grand surprise when Arngeir ushered him and Lydia into a room with a large fireplace and had them sit down to warm up. Mitchell felt tears threatening to burst out.  
  
Arngeir made him recount his entire story to the Greybeards, from his first shot of tequila down to his arrow sticking out of the dragon's corpse and his following breakdown. In return, Mitchell finally got a semi-satisfactory explanation as to what the hell this entire dragonborn thing was.   
  
"So to sum it up; I gank dragons, get souls, and learn how to bend reality to my will by shouting at it?"  
  
With Arngeir's confirming nod, Mitchell burst into a grin that could only be described as 'deeply concerning' and 'sanely questionable.' Had he been staring into glass, Lydia was sure it would've shattered. "I'm a hero from fantastic ancient legends and it's not a dream or a really elaborate prank. I mean dragonborn isn't quite 'almighty god of nice dicks and quality booze,' but holy! fucking! shit! Life is beautiful, I'm going to go shout at chickens." 

* * *

  
Mitchell never ended up going to shout at chickens. Lydia, fearing for her new thane's sanity after 'the reveal,' talked Arngeir into letting them rest for the night in High Hrothgar. That was how they ended up in what looked to be like a meeting room, laying back on their bedrolls and staring up at the stonework. Lydia was almost asleep when a sharp blast of odd music shocked her awake, accompanied by a hiss of "Oh fuck!" By Mitchell as he scrambled to grab his phone and answer the video call.   
  
"Fuckity fucking shit I fo- Hi mom! Nice of you to call in!"

 

"I wish I could say the same for you." Was the smooth reply from his Mother.   
  
Elise Xavier wore a passive expression, ever the master of being cool and collected. "But I can see that falling through a portal can distract one from calling his worried Mom and telling her where the hell he ended up."  
  
Mitch laughed awkwardly. "So Gabe explained the situation. It's gotten worse, believe it or not. Is there any chance either you or Dad is secretly a dragon?"   
  
Met with a confused look, Mitch quickly launched into yet another explanation of his mishaps ever since waking up on the cart in Helgen. At this point, he was considering keeping a book of what happened to him so that the next time someone asked about him he could slap them with it and tell them to read it and weep. When he finally finished his summary, he was out of breath and his Mom had lost all semblance of being calm and collected.   
  
"They... made you fight a dragon? In just leather armor? With no experience? Whatsoever?" Elise's voice was barely above a whisper.  
  
"I'm fine Mom. Really! Farengar healed my wounds afterwards and I'm still alive. That's pretty good, eh?"   
  
There was practically fire burning in Elise's eyes as she growled out "I'm going to find the man who sent you out there and I swear to God I will shove my guitar so far up his ass he'll shit music notes!"   
  
Of all the insane threats Lydia had heard in her life, that one took the sweet roll. So that was where Mitch had inherited his bizarre use of language from...  
  
"Gabe and your Dad blocked off the attic, but I have half the mind to go up there and find you myself." Elise snapped, pushing her hair out of her eyes. "My son, an ancient hero of legends... I hope to God they aren't planning to use you in some stupid plot."  
  
"Even if they try, I have a new housecarl here to protect me." Mitch said, trying to find something to make the situation slightly better.   
  
Elise nodded. "Lemme talk to this Lydia."  
  
Mitchell waved Lydia over, and the housecarl hesitantly took her place beside him. She was unsure of how to greet the woman, though the Elise handled that for her. "Lydia, if he acts like an arsehole you have my full permission to yell some sense into him. Lord knows he's gonna need a helluva lot of guidance through this. Keep him safe for me, eh? And watch yourself. I honestly dunno what I can promise you, but I'm sure when we get this all sorted out, we'll figure out a good reward for keeping him safe."   
  


* * *

  
  
"Well, I think I've figured out which of my parents is the dragon..." Mitch muttered awkwardly after he finally hung up.  
  
"Your mother certainly is... creative, my Thane." Lydia replied.   
  
Mitch chuckled, nodding. "I don't know whether convincing her to not come was a good thing or a bad thing. Lord knows she could probably punch a dragon to death if it hurt me or Gabe."  
  
"I mean no offense, but I fear that Nirn would not survive your Mother if she were the dragonborn." Lydia said slowly.  
  
Mitch nodded in agreement. "I hear ya there, Lyd. Loud and clear."


	7. Use the Voice, Mitch!

Lydia learned two things about her Thane the following morning. One, was that he was most definitely not a morning person. Two, she wasn't about to get anything sensible out of him before breakfast. Everything was just loud groans and noises of disgruntlement. Honestly, even Nelkir back in Dragonsreach had been easier to wake!  
  
Once she was sure he wasn't going to roll over and sleep again, Lydia excused herself to prepare a simple breakfast for them. It consisted of bread, butter, some sliced goat cheese, and a kettle of juniper berry tea. Lydia prepared it in record time, quickly setting up the meal on the table before going to coax Mitchell out of his bed roll. When she finally managed to yank him away from it and get him to the table, he sat down without complaint. The first thing he saw sitting across from him was the mug of hot tea.  
  
"Sweet jesus Lyd th-" Mitchell paused his praise to take a sip, his eyelids still dropping with sleep.   
  
Mitch choked slightly when he sipped, coughing in surprise. "The hell?" He asked, inhaling sharply. "It's not coffee? Please tell me there's coffee. I don't think I can survive this without it."   
  
"I have never heard of this coffee, Mitchell." Lydia replied with a raised brow. "If you don't like the tea, all you have to do is say so."  
  
"The tea's fine, but it's a bit of a shocker when normally the first thing on my lips in the morning is a double-double." Mitch replied, his voice hoarse.   
  
"Double-double?" Repeated Lydia with pursed lips.  
  
"Coffee from Tim Horton's, two cream and two sugars. It's a famous chain of coffee places back where I'm from. Nowhere's better than Tim's." Mitchell smiled fondly.   
  
"The double-double was the only thing that got me through morning classes in my first year of university. It's sweet enough to knock an elephant flat on it's ass. Remind me when this is all over and done with to find a way to get you a cup of it."

* * *

  
  
Shortly after breakfast, Mitchell redressed in his freshly-washed hoodie and jeans. They weren't as warm as they would be straight out of the dryer, but it was better to have them clean and not smelling like he'd passed out in a graveyard during thunder showers with a particularly smelly dog beside him. A quick glance in his phone's camera showed his rapidly growing stubble was turning into a thin beard and his hair really needed to be washed. He didn't have time to ask about it, swiftly being summoned to the High Hrothgar Courtyard soon afterwards.   
  
"The time has come, dovahkiin." Greeted Arngeir. "Demonstrate to us your thu'um as we have explained, and we will continue from there. Let us taste of your voice."   
  
"Before I do a bit of warning. If it sounds wrong or something, it is my first time and I have absolutely no idea what to do. If I fu- sorry, if I  _screw_  up it's not my fault." Mitchell stumbled over his words, completely out of his element once more.  
  
"Think of it as an audition, student of theatre. Try your best." Encouraged Arngeir.   
  
Mitchell pushed back his hair and stepped forward. He assumed there was supposed to be some sort of special meditation or focus, but all he felt was anxiety. His voice shook in his throat as he bellowed at the top of his lungs. "FUS!"  
  
There is nothing quite as empowering as watching your own special power make the equivalent of Gandalf stagger backwards from your power's sheer force. Mitchell laughed, eyes wide and a stunned smile on his face. "It actually worked!"  
  
Lydia watched with amusement from her perch on the stone railing, her own heart beating slightly faster. It was one thing to hear of stories of the thu'um and another to witness it. She still had her doubts about Mitchell being able to bring an end to the dragon crisis as Arngeir had alluded to, but that chopped them down significantly. When legends walked Nirn and strange man appeared from nowhere, anything was possible.  
  
"Impressive." Commented Arngeir. "Truly. I have heard tales of the dovahkiin's legendary mastery of the thu'um, but to witness it firsthand..."  
  
"Dude, you okay?" Mitchell called. "It was awesome, but did it hurt you or anything?"   
  
Arngeir shook his head, a hint of fondness in the gesture. "I am unharmed. But thank you for your consideration."

* * *

The Greybeards granted Mitchell the knowledge of a second word to the Unrelenting Force shout - Ro. He practiced it by trying to knock snowballs off of the railing with just his voice, getting increasingly giddier with each success. The man was bouncing on the balls of his feet, constantly turning back to Lydia to ask excitedly if she saw it, like an incredibly vocal and excitable puppy who'd finally learned how to bark.  
  
At noon, Arngeir stopped him, calling a break for lunch and a talk with Mitchell.   
  
"You are progressing quickly, dovahkiin. But you should also meditate on each word of power you learn. If you truly want to wield your thu'um, you must learn about it first. Do you understand?" Asked Arngeir.  
  
Mitchell nodded eagerly. "Gotta memorize the script before you can put on the play. It makes sense. But how do I figure out the meanings of words that I learn away from here? I don't know the dragon language. Is there like a Dragon tongue to English dictionary somewhere?"  
  
"No, unfortunately not." Answered Arngeir after swallowing his bite of bread. "When you first learned Fus, you mentioned passing out. Fus, force, pushed you over. Ro, balance, did not."  
  
"So, each first word of a different shout I learn will knock me unconscious? I may need to hire Farkas or Vilkas again, just so Lydia isn't left alone to defend my ass while the draugr try and kill us." Mitchell muttered.   
  
"It is said that when a dragonborn learns a new shout, they take part of it's essence into their being. Simply by finding the words, you feel a whisper of their full power. Pay attention to how your body reacts upon finding new words of power, and you may figure out what it means." Advised Arngeir sagely.  
  
"Okay, sounds alright. But I've been thinking... The dragon that attacked at Helgen, did it attack because I was there, or was I there because it was going to attack? Which one of us is the catalyst, the dragon or the dragonborn?" Mitchell questioned, biting his lip.   
  
Arngeir eyed Mitch with a new found curiosity. "It is unknown to us why that dragon attacked Helgen, but it is fortunate for you it did. There is no doubt your arrival and the return of the dragons are tied together by fate. You are destined to kill the dragons, after all."   
  
"Great to know I'm a genocidal hero." Mitchell deadpanned. "Surely some dragons have to be good? I mean, no person is all good or all bad, they're a mix of everything in different measures. There's got to be at least one dragon out there who's more benevolent than malevolent."   
  
Arngeir's sudden smile confused the Canadian. "There is, isn't there? Dude, I'm right? There's at least one?!" Mitchell exclaimed in excitement. "Do you know of it? Are they still alive, can I meet them?!"  
  
"You're worse than Farengar." Groaned Lydia.  
  
Arngeir shook his head with amusement. "The master of our order, Paarthurnax, will want to speak with you soon. However, we have a task for you to complete first, and we must see how you learn a completely new shout before that. Let us return to the courtyard. You still have much to learn."


	8. I Came in Like a Wrecking Ball

Whirlwind sprint quickly became Mitchell's favorite shout of all. Never mind the fact he only knew two so far. The dragonborn found himself enraptured by speeding through gates in a rush of adrenaline and kicking up snow as he hockey stopped at the end of the courtyard. The Greybeards had only intended for him to try it out once and rush through the gates, but the sheer thrill of it had Mitchell dashing about the courtyard yelling "GOTTA GO FAST!" and "I CAME IN LIKE A WRECKING BALL!" and giggling to himself.   
  
He was practically bouncing when Arngeir called him back to his side. "Jesus, had I known I could do that in elementary they would've made me center for sure! God, I could join the NHL at this rate! Become the next Wayne Gretsky!" Mitchell announced with excitement, knowing full well no one would understand him but taking comfort in his references anyways.   
  
"You are indeed adept at whirlwind sprint, Dovahkiin. I did not expect for you to take to it as well as you did." Admitted Arngeir. "The last practitioner we had in our halls preferred unrelenting force."  
  
Mitchell laughed. "Whirlwind sprint is so much more fun though! Just imagine you're all alone and then - suddenly, it's me!"  
  
"Truly even Talos himself would tremble with fear." Said Lydia dryly.   
  
"You're mocking me." Mitchell pouted at her and Lydia rolled her eyes.   
  
"Never, my thane. I don't know what would possibly give you that notion." She replied smoothly. 

* * *

  
Mitchell had been tasked with retrieving the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller from Ustengrav as his 'grand test' from the Greybeards. Which was fine of course, until Mitchell recalled the fact that he knew about two shouts, two spells, and couldn't fight worth shit with his new axe. One thing led to the next and then to another thing and before she new it Lydia was standing beside Farkas of the Companions as they followed Mitch through the old ruins. The reasoning of course being that if Mitch ran into another word wall or a particularly tricky monster, he wanted Lydia to have someone of relative talent to back her up while he was knocked out or otherwise occupied.  
  
 _"And it's not because I like how his ass looks in leather pants."_  Mitchell reasoned to himself as he forked over some gems he'd looted from the Barrow as payment. _"That's just a bonus bit of eye candy for when I'm cowering behind him."_    
  
Inside the ruins, a few hostile mages had made camp. Mitch hid around the corner behind Farkas while Lydia picked them off one by one with her bow. Mitch protested at first, as from his standpoint it was 'morally questionable' and 'sort of a dick move.' Voicing those concerns was irrelevant after one of the mages heard him and sent a fireball flying at them. After that, he chose to keep quiet. Better the mages than him. 

* * *

  
"Fucking draugr, I swear to God." Muttered Mitchell angrily as he watched the bastard patrol the room ahead.  
  
"Just shoot it already, before I go kill it myself!" Growled Farkas lowly.   
  
"I'm waiting for the right-"  
  
Mitchell cut himself off as the draugr paused and turned to stare directly at him. He let his arrow fly, striking the draugr in the chest and staggering it. He quickly jumped up and shouted "FUS RO!" The draugr went soaring backwards into the wall, and Lydia finished it off with a final shot from her own bow. The result was a macabre display of semi-shattered bones and rotting flesh pinned to the wall with two arrows.   
  
"Hah! I'm getting good at this." Mitchell exclaimed cheerily.  
  
"Why did he hire me if he was just going to kill it himself?" Asked Farkas to Lydia with a grumble.   
  
"He had his reasons." Replied the amused housecarl. "Relax, Companion. He will need us sooner or later. Besides, it's best he learn to fight now, if he'll be battling dragons in the near future."  
  
Farkas rolled his eyes and followed Lydia and Mitchell deeper into the ruin. "Hey, you get out of Jorrvaskr for a bit and get to explore, Lydia gets some proper company, and I get to watch two hot-ass warriors fight for me. It's win-win-win." Mitchell called back to him.   
  
"It is not warm in here, my thane."  
  
"Expressions, my housecarl. Expressions."


	9. Do it for the Vine, Lurbuk

"SON OF A WHORE!" Echoed loudly throughout the cavern as Mitchell thrust the note into Lydia's hands.   
  
"Then we're off to Riverwood," Said Lydia simply after scanning the note.   
  
Mitchell was gaping at her as he spun around. "You're okay with this?!" He demanded. "That arsehole could just be setting me up! You said it yourself, not everyone's happy about this whole dragonborn situation. What if this fucker just wants to stab me or something?"  
  
"Then Farkas and I will handle them." Insisted Lydia impatiently. "This is our only chance to get the horn."   
  
Mitchell let out an animated groan of frustration, gesturing wildly with his arms. "I cannot fucking believe this. Fuck me sideways!"  
  
Farkas glanced back and forth from Lydia to Mitchell. "We can rest in Morthal for the night head for Riverwood in the morning." He stated helpfully.   
  
"Fuck, as long as I can take a bath or something." Mitchell muttered, turning back the way they came. "I smell like a fucking hobolo."

* * *

  
Mitchell did get a bath in Morthal, though it was more or less walking a bit out of town and stripping off to jump into the freezing water. It wasn't that Morthal didn't have tubs, it was that sometimes he needed a swim to clear his mind and this was the best he was going to get until Riverwood. It was chilly at first, like the first time he did the polar dip in Quebec. Soon enough the water began to heat and he grew more relaxed.   
  
It was hard to drag himself away from the water, but he eventually managed to get out and dressed. The sun was starting to rise again by the time he reached Moorside Inn, and Mitch wasn't about to fall back asleep yet. To kill time before Lydia and Farkas awoke, Mitchell ordered breakfast from Jonna and took a seat nearby the inn's only other patron, a burly orc tuning a lute. His lute playing seemed alright, though Mitch had overheard Jonna muttering about the orc's awful singing.  
  
Mitch never considered himself a masochist, but goddamn was he curious to see if the orc was truly that terrible. So pushing aside his hesitance, the Canadian moved closer to the orc. "So, you're a bard?" He asked in his friendliest tone.   
  
The orc nodded, a slight smirk on his face. "Name's Lurbuk. Trained at the Bard's College in Solitude." He boasted.   
  
"I may have to visit there." Mitch mused. "Sounds like my kind of place."  
  
The orc nodded, idly strumming the lute. "It's the best school in all of Tamriel to learn the arts of music and poetry."  
  
"How about a friendly display between fellow musicians? Song for a song?"  
  
Lurbuk considered it. "I don't play without being paid. But I can make an exception for a fellow bard. What should I perform?"   
  
"I'll confess, I know little of Skyrim's music. Whatever you deem best."  
  
Had Mitchell turned around, he would've seen Jonna's petrified form staring at him with widened eyes and a dropped jaw. However, he didn't turn around. Pity, it would've been a lovely snapchat for Gabe and Sara.   
  
The orc bard started to sing, and Mitchell felt his ears start to bleed.  _"So this is how it ends."_  He thought to himself.  _"Not with a bang, but with a squirrel going through a lawnmower. God help me, I done fucked up."_

Mitchell's cat once sat on the window sill and howled at a tom outside all night because she was in heat. That experience was ten times more pleasant than listening to Lurbuk sing. If Mitchell didn't have Farkas and Lydia to stick around for, he would've run the moment Lurbuk started singing. The orc was the personification of tone deaf itself. Had Mitch been a lesser man, his ears would have started bleeding. Jonna herself was crouching behind the counter in terror.   
  
Mitch didn't have the heart to tell the truth to the orc when he finished his song with a grin. "That was brilliant!" He exclaimed with false enthusiasm. "Though your range doesn't quite match the original. Have you ever considered you may be better suited for bass?"  
  
When Lurbuk gave him a confused look, Mitch quickly jumped to explain. "Your voice is really deep, and it would work extremely well with songs that require deeper voices. I take it you dont know the Misty Mountains? Here, listen to this."

* * *

  
Somehow one song turned into about twenty and ended up with Mitchell teaching Lurbuk the Cup Song with a few empty tankards. It was times like that that Mitchell questioned what his life was coming to. Not to say it wasn't fun, but it was extremely fucking weird to show someone who could easily break bricks with his head to play a song loved by teenage girls everywhere. Especially since the orc seemed rather good at it compared to his previous song. The look of pure joy on his face as he slammed the cups against the wooden table and sang the sweet melody was one that tugged at Mitchell's heartstrings and made even Jonna look impressed.   
  
"Hey, do you mind if I take a video of this for my brother?" Asked Mitchell, indicating his phone.   
  
And through that, Mitch finally got in the first video for his collective journal of the drug trip of an adventure that Skyrim was turning out to be. 


	10. Snapchats for Science!

Delphine wasn't what Mitchell expected, but he should've been used to that by now. Skyrim didn't seem to work on the same logic as Earth. Milk was frowned upon, everyone was armed to teeth, a bar fight was nothing, and tiny women with katanas spat insults at dragons they'd purposefully sought out to fight. In Mitchell's humble opinion, Skyrim was really fucking weird. And really fucking deadly, he had to remind himself, as he dodged a torrent of flames with a curse. Drawing back his bow, Mitchell sent another arrow at the dragon before ducking behind the rocks once more.

While Mitchell had dreaded fighting another dragon ever since he had took on his first, Farkas and Lydia had been ecstatic at the chance to meet one face to face on the battlefield. He suspected it was the only reason they didn't insist on getting on their merry way to High Hrothgar first. He also suspected he'd never understand their viewpoints. They saw it as a great honor to fight a dragon, while all Mitchell could feel was an overwhelming sense of loss and yet also excitement as the beast crumpled to the ground and began to dissolve in a wave of fire.

The soul gave him a rush of power, fusing itself with his own and bringing back the strange sensation of his skin being aflame. When the light faded away, he was left standing there while his companions looked on in awe. Delphine was the first to approach him.

"I never actually thought it could be you..." She trailed off, sizing him up once more and still coming back confused.

"I guess I'm full of surprises." Mitchell replied, though his voice was barely there.

* * *

 

Before Farkas could start picking through the bones and scales, Mitchell stopped him and pulled out his phone. The dragonborn had been too distracted the first time around to actually document what he found. This time he wasn't about to pass up the chance. Photos were being taken left and right, while Mitchell babbled on about how the bone structure fit or how the horns curled. His grade one dreams of being a paleontologist were slowly reawakened as he snapped pictures with glee.

Delphine watched on in amusement and mild exasperation as Mitchell called Farkas over to help gather scales and bone. "I know what I saw, but he makes the truth hard to believe." Delphine remarked to Lydia.

The housecarl shrugged. "I don't think I'll ever get used to it either. He's so..."

"Strange?"

"Erratic."

Delphine nodded in agreement. "Dragonborn!" She called, gaining Mitchell's attention.

He passed the scales he was holding to Farkas before jogging back to Delphine and Lydia. "Just Mitch is fine. Am I allowed to ask questions now?"

"Shoot." Delphine replied with an affirmative nod.

"After I bring the Horn to the Greybeards, what do I do next?"

Delphine smiled, something that looked off on her usually expressionless face. "I believe our next moves will be better suited to your expertise. I have a contact at the Bard's College who you'll need to speak to. We're going to have you crash a party." 


	11. OOGA CHAKA OOGA CHAKA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy halloween to everyone reading this in the now-present. To those reading in the soon-future, hi.

Silence fell over the foyer, the quiet squabbling and reminders all coming to an abrupt halt as Delphine and the College Instructors witnessed Mitchell absent-mindedly brushing back his messy curls and chuckling as he spoke to Illdi. The two appeared to be in deep conversation about Illdi's poem analysis, as Mitchell kept gesturing to the paper and drawing her attention to certain aspects of the narrative. Despite his disheveled appearance and the smell that was starting to grow on him from not showering for the last few days, Delphine found the gangly-limbed dragonborn finally looked like he belonged somewhere in Skyrim for once.   
  
Part of her felt smug, despite her own anxiety over planning to send and inexperienced boy into what very well could be his enslavement or death. But never the less, Delphine still turned to Viarmo with a victorious smirk. "Still on the fence about it now?"  
  
While Viarmo, Giraud, and Pantea had fallen completely silent, Inge still held her critical look  
.  
"Close your mouth before a dragon flies in there and lays eggs, all of you. An Imperial City whore may look as pretty as a winter rose, but it doesn't change her voice to make it any less sultry."  
  
Viarmo shook his head, closing his mouth and turning to Delphine. "Have him shown to the bathing chambers and make sure he gets cleaned up. Then bring him to the vocals classroom for his audition. He's only in if he's got the skills. I'm a bard, Delphine. Not a miracle worker."  
  
\---  
"Don't forgot to wash behind your ears."  
"Jesus Christ Delphine, I am not five years old!"  
"Could've fooled me."  
"You have five more minutes."  
  
Mitchell was out in two, with his dripping wet hair plastered to his head and a thin towel wrapped around his waist. Delphine took a moment purely to appreciate the aesthetics presented before her before Mitchell's proud smirk made her shake her head and look up. "Well, I can see where Inge found comparison." She remarked.   
\---  
Viarmo had seen some shit during his time as the Head of the Bard's College. People who auditioned were varied, each prospective student bringing in something different. Sometimes different was alright, a new perspective to be seen. Others were cringy, ear-splitting, and altogether unpleasant. Mitchell's audition, however, became a new experience altogether.  
  
The man swaggered in, redressed in his now washed clothes and holding his head a little higher. The apparent confidence was quickly noted down by Viarmo. He couldn't have a wallflower bard in the Thalmor Embassy. "Anytime you're ready, Mitchell."   
"Great. Can you hit play on this for me? Just tap the screen and the music'll start up."   
  
Mitchell handed Viarmo a small device that he quickly clarified was a "phone." When Viarmo tapped the screen, the song did indeed begin with a blast of _"OOGA CHAKA OOGA OOGA OOGA CHAKA OOGA OOGA OOGA CHAKA!"_  that made Viarmo jump in his seat. Mitchell hastily adjusted the volume before standing back and taking in a deep breath.  
  
 _"I can't stop this feeling,_  
deep inside of me!   
Girl, you just don't realize  
What you do to me  
  
When you hold me  
In your arms so tight  
You let me know  
Everything's all right  
  
I'm hooked on a feeling  
I'm high on believing  
That you're in love with me!"  
  
Viarmo tapped the screen once more to pause the song, and Mitchell folded his hands behind his back and nodded. Viarmo looked him up and down. There was no denying Mitchell had the voice of a snow lark. His choice of music, however, was something that would require work. "Well, your voice is fine, and I have no doubt the other songs will fit the mood of the Embassy more so than that one. Remember, you won't be drawing attention to yourself. You want to stay unnoticed."   
  
"Of course! Does this mean I'm in?" Mitchell had a look of pure glee on his face when Viarmo nodded.   
  
"Yes. There's just one more thing before you go." Viarmo said quickly.   
  
The Altmer ripped a page form his notebook and jotted down a quick letter, which he folded and passed on to Mitch. "Bring this to Taarie at Radiant Raiment, and do whatever she says. Auriel knows you will need to." 

\---

Mitchell wasn't sure how many different outfits he'd been forced into in the last three hours, but he was assuming that he was near the hundredth mark. At this point, it seemed like Taarie and Endarie were just having him change into new clothes so they could see him shivering in his boxers while they bickered over colors and patterns.   
  
"Are we anywhere near being done? Because I think my nips could cut glass from how cold it is." He asked in all sincerity.   
  
He was met only with glares and twin snaps of "Hush, you!"  
  
Raising his hands in his defense, Mitchell sat back down and let out a sigh. "For fuck's sake, I'd go in a fucking dress if it meant I could get out of here."  
  
No sooner had the words left his mouth before the sisters turned in unison and stared at him with eyes like hawks. They both seemed to take the comment to heart, as Mitchell spent yet another half hour being made to try on dresses meant for noble ladies.   
  
Apparently Mitchell wasn't the only one who was finding how long it was taking ridiculous, because Delphine soon interrupted them in irritation. She laid one look on Mitchell on the stood up on a stool while the sisters fluttered around him with needles and let out an aggravated noise.  
  
"You are not wearing a silk gown to the Embassy, Divines so help me!" She snapped in a fury.   
  
"Hey, blame them for taking my smart-ass comments seriously."   
  
Delphine put her head in her hands. "Had I known it would've been this difficult, I would've just bought you clothes myself. We need to meet up with Malborn ten minutes from now, hurry up!"


	12. It's My Party And I'll Cry If I Want To

Parties, in Mitchell's experience, were generally fun and upbeat. Parties back home consisted of getting together with friends at the lodge on the weekend and getting absolutely smashed to catchy music. Or there were "parties," where he was painfully sober and listening to the sounds of screaming children. At least chaperoning parties for his cousin's kids was semi-entertaining and usually had cake. This party was painfully dry and had no cake whatsoever. Instead of pumped up dance songs or kid's cartoon theme songs, Pantea sang a quiet tune while Inge accompanied her on lute.   
  
Mitchell himself mainly just sat around, holding a bottle of Brandy and looking pretty. Viarmo had told Elenwen he was training, only there to witness professionals play. Though the woman had agreed to it, the glances she was sparing Mitch made him shift in his spot and hold back a cringe. His disguise was paper thin at best. His glasses were replaced with the only pair of contacts he had on him, and he sported the fine clothes that had been commissioned for him at Radiant Raiment. (He really wished Delphine would've let him wear the dress - it would've been the one entertaining part of the party.) They were somehow passing him off as an Nord, and it was holding up by some sort of miracle. But the more Elenwen looked at him, the more uncomfortable he grew.   
  
It was only when she was standing directly in front of him that she actually bothered to address him. "I don't believe we have been introduced." Elenwen greeted, her voice grating on Mitchell's ears.   
  
"It seems so." Mitchell replied casually.   
"I am Elenwen, the Thalmor Ambassador to Skyrim. And you are?"  
 _Shit._  "Mitchell, at your service." He gave an awkward half-bow.   
  
"Just Mitchell?" She asked with amusement.   
 _Fuckity fucking shit fuck._  "Just Mitchell." He replied with a smile. "I'm afraid that "singer" is the only title I may boast of."  
  
"For a singer, you have been remarkably quite throughout the night." Elenwen observed, looking rather much like a spider creeping in on a fly.   
  
"I've been instructed to observe, my lady. So I can learn and may one day perform for you in the future." Mitchell responded, trying to sound as humble as possible.   
  
By some divine miracle, Malborn managed to attract Elenwen's attention and divert her focus from Mitchell. While the wood elf piped up about a lacking of drinks, Mitch slipped away from his spot and towards the other side of the room. He needed to find a distraction, and fast. It was while he was scanning the room that he found his opportunity in the form of a bitching Redguard.   
  
It's truly amazing, the favors you can get when you give a drunk a drink. Mitchell found himself being showered with praise by the man, who identified himself as Razelan and insisted to be able to do something in return for the "generous soul" who provided him with a drink. When Mitchell requested a distraction, Razelan gave a boisterous laugh.   
  
"You might say that's my specialty. Scurry off and watch a master at work." He chuckled, before standing up and cracking his neck.  
  
Mitchell didn't bother looking back or listening to Razelan's speech. He bee-lined to Malborn and was away from the party in an instant. A small bit of relief flooded through him as he door swung shut and he was finally separated from the noise of the party. 


	13. Shit Hits the Fucking Fan

Crouching behind the door, Mitchell silently reconsidered all of his life choices up to that point. He'd been doing that a lot lately. It seemed whatever fucking universe he was in wanted him to be stressed as fuck and freaking out. The Thalmor guards on the other side of the door were none the wiser to the tetchy theater student's current discomfort. Mitchell silently prayed one of them would go away to take a shit or something so he could sneak past the other. One he could avoid, but two was out of the question.   
  
So of course there had to be fucking three.   
  
 _"Seriously, fuck this shit!"_  Mitchell thought to himself as he saw the third shadow in the doorway.  _"Fuck me sideways with a fucking chainsaw."_    
  
After fifteen minutes of crouching it was clear none of the gossiping agents were about to leave anytime soon. Mitchell's knees were getting cramped, and his patience was wearing thin. Frustrated, he searched through his satchel for something- anything- to use. He came up with a small ring he'd picked up in Ustengrav and a few gold coins he'd hastily shoved into Malborn's smuggling pack. Only coming up with one idea, Mitchell took a deep breath before winding up his arm and chucking the ring directly into a vase on the far side of the hall.  
  
The vase crashed to the floor with the tell-tale sound of breaking porcelain. Mitchell scuttled back into the shadows as the armored guards went running down the hall. Moving quickly, Mitchell forward rolled into the kitchens and hauled the door shut behind him. When he rose, he found himself face to face with the thalmor wizard.   
  
"Watch out for the guy behind you!" Mitchell hissed, pointing to the other side of the room.   
  
And when the wizard whipped around on instinct, Mitchell punched him square in the head and knocked him out. The dragonborn pulled his fist back, hissing in pain before pushing a book shelf in front of the door before the other guards returned. With little time left, Mitchell yanked the Thalmor's notes and documents off of him.   
  
A bang at the door behind him sent Mitchell running forward and out of the Embassy. He crouched down just out of view of the lone guard who watched the building. Hoping the trick would work a second time, Mitchell tossed the coin to the bushes and successfully distracted the guard. Letting out an exhale, he snuck into the new building. 

* * *

 

Metal boots against a wooden floor dominated all other sounds in the dungeon. The very existence of a guard sent a chill down Mitchell's spine. He was cursing every god he'd ever heard of ever since he'd arrived in this shithole as the steps grew louder. Probably not the wisest move, but it was incredibly stress-relieving to place the blame on someone else. Not for the first time, Mitchell wished Delphine could've just done it herself.   
  
After an eon of waiting in the balcony, Mitch finally heard the footsteps retreating back to the other side. He quickly slung his legs over the railing and let himself silently drop to the floor below. It was the better alternative, especially when he didn't know if the stairs were creaky or not. It also put him right next to the desk, which had several files opened on it. Mitchell swiped them all and then dug around the chest beside it for good measure. In the end he came up with a key and three dossiers.  
  
A gentle groan from one of the torture cells alerted Mitchell to another person's presence while simultaneously almost making him shit a brick. The Canadian found his feet carrying him to the cell. He pushed it open slowly and took in the sight of a shirtless man with welts, cuts, and bruises covering his torso and arms.  
  
"I've already told you, I don't know anymore." The man groaned, his lidded gaze on Mitchell's feet.   
  
Mitchell ignored him, setting to work on the cuffs. After a minute of fiddling, he finally realized what the key he'd swiped was for, and unlocked the prisoner from his binds. The man collapsed to the floor in a heap and Mitch shifted to support him. "You okay?" He asked quietly, digging a vial with a healing potion in it from his pocket and placing it to the man's lips.   
The man downed the potion in one gulp. Slowly, the bruises on his stomach began to fade and his cuts started sealing up. His breath was coming out in heavy pants. Mitchell carefully picked him up and brought him over to the desk he'd cleared. He spoke quietly as he carefully looked over the scars on his back.  
  
"What's your name, bud?" He asked.  
  
"Etienne." The man had replied, in between shudders. "Etienne Rarnis."  
  
"Nice to meet you. I'm Mitch. Do you need another healing potion? Can you walk?"   
  
Etienne let out a drawn out groan. "I think so."   
The yelp he let out when Mitch's hand brushed lightly against his side said otherwise. Mitch gave the man another one of the potions Delphine had supplied. When the Canadian was finally sure the shorter man would be able to walk with minimal pain, he helped him to his feet.   
  
"Is there a way out?" Asked Mitch quietly, looking around the dungeons.  
  
"There's a trap door over there. The guards use it to get rid of bodies. We need a key though."  
  
The thought made Mitchell sick to his stomach. He knew he smelt something when he stepped in... Forcing himself to ignore the nausea, he shook his head. "There's a battleaxe mounted on that wall. We won't need a key." 

* * *

 

There were footsteps on the stairs. Mitchell froze, with the battleaxe in mid-swing and the trap door already three quarters of the way broken up. His breathing seemed thunderous alongside the creaks of the floorboards. Heavy boots, something metal, and the faint scuffling of leather shoes. The noises made Mitchell's anxiety flare up. The voices that soon followed only worsened his sudden bought of panic.   
  
"Give it up, spy!" Came the haughty voice of a Thalmor soldier. "We have your accomplice! We know you're in- ahah!"  
  
The soldiers came around the corner with a terrified Malborn in their grasps. The poor jumpy little bastard who'd scoffed at him but helped anyways, The guy who specifically said he couldn't risk assisting them and then went and did it anyways. The guy who was now choking on his own blood as one of the soldier's plunged a dagger through his neck and sent a bolt of lightning through his side.   
  
The very sight of the blood spurting out of Malborn's mouth and throat, the image of his neck sizzling with electricity, it froze Mitchell to the spot. He want to throw up, and scream, and piss himself, and run. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the gory picture, no matter how sick it was making him. It was as though someone had glued his feet to the floor. For what felt like an eternity, Mitchell stood there, with his eyes wide as the blood kept flowing. The other soldier grabbing his sword was what snapped him out of it.   
  
Mitchell hadn't even realized he'd moved until his ax split open one of the soldier's heads with a sickening crack. The very same boy who had once broken another kid's leg when checking him during a game and cried over it for a week, now held a bloodstained ax in his shaking hands as he charged at the other soldier with an animalistic noise caught in his throat. But the horrid sense of guilt was absent, replaced only with a blind fury.  
  
It wasn't until later that he realized he was yelling "He was innocent!" in a cracked-voiced repeat as he swung madly at the Thalmor. It wasn't until after Etienne pulled him away from the corpse and pried the ax from his fingers that he realized he'd dropped the second soldier.   
  
"We need to go, now!" Etienne hissed urgently.  
"But Malborn-"   
"It's too late for him! Come on, before someone else gets here!"  
  
He was right. Malborn was already dead. The elf's broken form was crumpled on the floor like a rag doll. He stared up at the two of them with glossy brown eyes, and he was dead. Oh God, he was dead. He was dead and part of it was Mitchell's fault. The Canadian was painfully aware of himself as he spun away from Malborn's corpse and proceeded to vomit into the nearby barrel.  
  
Despite Etienne's instincts screaming at him to leave the man and just run, his better half made him grab Mitchell's shoulder and yank him down through the trap door. Though he was still dry heaving and freaking out, Mitch ran dutifully alongside him as they fled from the dungeons. 

* * *

 

After all the shit they went through, Mitchell didn't think the universe would have anything else in store for him. The universe decided to give a big fuck you to him by placing a frost troll in the cave he and Etienne jumped into. The sudden roar in their ears sent the two men off like rabbits running from a wolf.   
  
Mitchell was fairly sure if he slowed down his heart would explode and he would die. The troll pursued them to a fallen log that bridged a wide gap in the stone. While the rotted wood held fast for Mitch and Etienne, it snapped under the troll's weight and went tumbling down the short fall. While it wasn't enough to kill the beast, it slowed it enough for the two men to escape.   
  
When they reached the mouth of the cave and hit the fresh night air, Mitchell ran straight into a rock and tripped over it so he could stop running. He collapsed into a heap on the ground, sobs wracking his body as he struggled to calm down. His heart was beating worse than someone who was pretending they knew how to play the drums. It was like is was going to burst from his chest. All of his energy in him was seemingly sent to heart and he couldn't even find the power to get up.   
  
A gentle touch on his shoulder shocked him into letting out a great wracking cough that got most of the sobbing out of his system. Slowly, his heart rate subsided and his breathing calmed down. His face was soaked with snow and blood and tears, but his eyes were dried. With a final shudder, Mitchell rolled from his side to his back.   
  
By all rights, Etienne should've left him in the snow. But something struck with the thief in the man's horrified look, something that kept him rooted beside his savior as he helped him lean against the rock.   
  
When he managed to regain himself, Mitchell let out a broken laugh. "Jesus Christ." He muttered, his head shaking.   
  
"The elf back there, were you friends?" Etienne asked softly.  
  
"I just met him yesterday. I barely knew him." Mitchell said, and let out another laughed that chilled Etienne to the bone.   
  
"I barely knew him, and he died because of me." 


	14. In Which Mitchell is Bilbo Baggins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If any of you are watching Marco Polo on Netflix, Lorenzo Richelmy as Marco is a dead ringer for Mitchell, provided you picture him with bluer eyes and glasses.

Etienne had intended on going back to Riften right after he'd left, back to his home and as far away from the Embassy he could get. He voiced as much, only to be met with an exhausted look from Mitchell. Tired looks turned to gentle persuasion, which turned to trekking back to Solitude together after Mitchell promised him a full meal and a warm bed if he'd follow him and share any information he could. 

The men were tired and freezing and Mitchell's eyes were still sore from the contacts he'd taken out. Without his phone on him he felt naked, unaware of the time or day and without any music to calm him down. The winds blew harshly in the night, making their walk harder. It was an hour before they finally were approaching Solitude's gates. 

The guards parted before them, granting Mitch and Etienne only passing glances as they made their way into the city and over to the Bard's College. In the late night, the only sounds came from the tavern in the form of bawdy songs and laughter. The simple confirmation that they were finally away from the Embassy in those laughs were what gave Mitchell cause to force himself forward, despite each step burning his legs. It was little surprise to him when he collapsed at Viarmo's feet upon finally entering the College.   


* * *

  
"Malborn-"   
"Is dead. We know." 

Mitchell looked up at Delphine's form, her arms crossed stiffly over her chess and her icy blue eyes piercing anything she looked at. He felt his throat tightening, his hands quivering at his sides.

"You don't care." He stated. "He gave his life up for no goddamn fucking reason and you don't fucking care at all." 

Mitchell's voice was raw, and the enraged look in his eyes made Lydia's insides crawl. Her regret for not being more insistent about accompanying her Thane flared up once more, and she averted her eyes. 

"He knew what he was getting into." Delphine responded cooly.  
"That's not the fucking point!" Mitchell yelled, running his hands through his hair in aggravation. 

"Then what is?!" Delphine demanded, losing her patience. "You want to write a song for him? Go ahead! But save it until we find Esbern, because unless you've already forgotten, we have a bigger crisis on our hands right now!" 

Mitch found his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat and the tips of his ears growing red. No matter how he struggled, the man could not find the words to say how guilty he felt. No articulation could fully explain the fear in his heart, or the anger, or the overwhelming sense of dread. Part of him agreed with Delphine, the smaller logical part that reminded him he barely knew Malborn. They certainly hadn't been friends. So  _why_  did he feel so guilty?

With his mind still clouded and unable to think, Mitch stood abruptly and stormed out from Viarmo's office with exactly no idea where he was headed. All he could feel was the

persistent need to move- to just move until his legs fell out from underneath him and then move a little bit more.

* * *

 

Jorrvaskr, Whiterun, Skyrim, Tamriel. Each places Mitchell did not want to be at the moment. Each part of were he stood, under the mead hall of the Companions, waiting to speak with Kodlak Whitemane. The longer he waited for the end of Vilkas and Kodlak's conversation, the more he wished to leave. But with absolutely no way to go and no idea what to do, he had little choice but to go along with what Lydia had suggested. 

The Companions were a brave gang of warriors, each skilled in fighting and arts of battle. They were the pride of Whiterun, one of the most respected Guilds in Skyrim. They sang songs of glory and honour, of fighting to the death. They were renowned for their effectiveness. All of these traits were what lead Lydia to convince Delphine to send Mitchell to them for training. For a moment Delphine had protested, and Mitchell certainly made his objections heard. But in the end, it wasn't what either of them wanted that mattered. It was ensuring Mitchell would be able to fight on his own that came first. So Delphine begrudgingly agreed, and Mitchell was overruled.   
  
Not for the first time since arriving in the godforsaken universe, Mitch felt utterly and irrevocably helpless. And with no hope, he forced himself to focus only on the task at hand. It was a distraction, and distraction was supposed to help. Right?

* * *

Kodlak Whitemane. He was the kind of man who Mitch suspected that Gandalf would be like. He gave off those kind of wisdom vibes that only came from age and the slightest hint of mischief. He smiled at Mitchell and politely sent him off with Vilkas to have his arm tested. Kodlak seemed like he only meant the best for this odd newcomer.  
  
Honestly, in Mitch's opinion, it was the people who meant the best for him who were going to kill him in the end.

* * *

 

Some people say that fighting is a great way to blow off steam. What they don't say is it's only great if you win. It was the seventh round of their sparring, the seventh time Mitchell's sword had been knocked from his hand and his ass sent to the ground. Vilkas' eternal smirk was beginning to grow as unbearable as his sweat soaked hoodie. Indeed, fighting was a great way to blow off stress, but only for Vilkas. Mitch was the one feeling the strain in his muscles and the pain of the bruises welling up on his stomach and sides. Honestly, just watching him try to fight was painful for the Companions who stopped to observe.   
  
With a loud and unnecessarily over-dramatic groan, Mitch forced himself to his feet and pushed his hair out of his eyes once more. This time, Vilkas did not wait for him to ready himself before he lashed out. One pure instinct, Mitchell dodged and rolled, coming back up on his feet in a bounce. Still without his sword, Mitchell grabbed the nearest thing he could - a small rock.   
  
The smooth feeling of the stone in his hand brought back long buried memories of a time when he didn't tower over everyone else in the room, when his lean runner's form hadn't quite revealed itself yet. Years of playground taunting for early pimples and braces were things Mitchell had repressed the memories of since grade eleven. But when faced with a semi-similar situation, impulse kicked in.  
  
A target just to the right of Vilkas' ear was swiftly spotted. With careful measure Mitchell whipped the stone so it whizzed directly by Vilkas and momentarily broke his concentration as it shattered a porcelain vase. The sharp noise made the Companion turn his head, and in a heartbeat Mitchell shot forward like a bullet. He barreled into his sparring partner and knocked his sword out of his hand and his body to the ground in the process. Vilkas let out a yell of indignation but was to let to prevent the both of them from crashing into the ground.   
  
Mitchell snatched the sword from beside them, letting out a whoop of victory as he pressed the side against Vilkas' throat. His laughter bubbled up with his pride, unable to be cut down by even Vilkas shoving him off and grumbling.  
  
"You'll have to pay for that vase." Vilkas chided.  
"Fucking worth it." Mitchell wheezed in reply.   
"Get up." Vilkas sighed and shook his head, the faintest hint of a smile flickering across his face before disappearing.   
  
Mitchell was still laughing as he stood, a wide grin lighting up his features. Indeed, sparring was therapeutic, at least when he finally won. Failing beforehand seven times only made the success that much sweeter.   
  
"We're done for today." Vilkas called, picking up his greatsword and slinging it back into it's sheath.  
  
The Companion unstrapped the sheath from his back, holding it out to Mitchell. "I have a task for you, new blood. Take this to Eorlund up at the Skyforge to be sharpened."   
  
"Aw, and here I thought I was being rewarded for finally kicking ass." Mitch joked. "No matter. Just point the way, I'm too surprised that actually worked to be mad you're making me do stuff."   
  
With adrenaline coursing through his veins, Mitch practically skipped up the steps to the Skyforge. In those precious hours after his small victory, every other problem seemed minuscule. A mantra had been picked up earlier during the fighting, one that compelled him to stand the eight rounds with a merciless partner. If he had already survived giant-ass spiders, Thalmor dick heads, and goddamn fucking DRAGONS, he could survive anything life could throw at him. And in the end, one way or another, he would avenge Malborn's death and find his way home.

 


	15. And Now For Something Completely Different

If there was one place in Skyrim that Lydia truly despised with great malice, it would be Riften. The Reach was bad enough, with the Forsworn and the Silver-Bloods, but the Rift had grizzlies and drunks and thieves enough to make an troupe of travelling performers seethe with jealousy. It seemed every last bit of filth had been drawn towards the city of crossed daggers in the last few eras. Delphine herself did not display much interest in the state of things, and Etienne was content enough to stay quiet and not wander far from her. Lydia found herself half-wishing they had brought Mitchell along anyways. At least the Dragonborn genuinely enjoyed her quips.

Delphine mostly paid her no mind, instead focused on locating her contact in the marketplace. So far she had given no indication as to seeing him, and Lydia was left trailing her and feeling rather like a watch dog moreso than a housecarl. It was only the lightest touch at her back that broke the sheer monotony of the task and stopped them in their tracks.

Lydia had spun when she felt someone's hand on her backside, reaching for the coin purse hidden there. She shoved the would be pickpocket into the nearest market stall while Etienne let out a sound of shock. Lydia's steel-gauntleted hand came up to wrap around the thief's throat. "The next time you attempt that will be the last time you have hands." Lydia whispered calmly, watching confusion and fear swell in the thief's eyes.

He tried to choke out a retort, but was cut off by Lydia's grip tightening. The thief's only saviour came in the form of Delphine, rushing forward to pull Lydia away from him. "Stop that, he's the one we need!" She hissed, and Lydia released the thief so he could fall into the stall, coughing for air.

"Crazy bitch!" He snarled, rubbing at the red marks in his pale skin.

"Brynjolf?" Etienne breathed out, and Lydia found a small throb starting in the back of her head.

Of course Delphine's contact would be with the Thieves Guild. As if it wasn't bad enough Mitchell had talked them into escorting the first thief he'd come across, they just had to throw the rest of the Guild into the mix. By Talos, she needed a strong tankard of ale and a nap.

* * *

If Lydia had thought Riften was filthy, then the Ragged Flagon was a whole new level of disgusting. She had voiced that opinion, only to have Etienne reply, "Well, it's home."

Lydia made a disgruntled noise as she kicked away a rat. "Ah yes, nothing quite says home sweet home like the stench of shit and liquor. At least Jorrvaskr has the dignity to smell of wet dog and not of stale dead wet dog."

"We are based in a place called the Ratway, Lydia. What else do you expect?" Etienne countered.

"That's enough out of both of you. We are here to locate Esbern, nothing more." Delphine snapped.

At the head of the group, Brynjolf's grimace deepened. Esbern had been paying them good money for the Guild to keep quiet about his location, and Mercer would be kicking both him and Etienne for just throwing a source of funds away like that. It wasn't an easy decision, but between Mercer's wrath and Delphine's blade... At least Mercer needed him to a degree.

"Voices carry down here." Brynjolf said in a low warning. "Watch yourselves."

It shut up the squabbling quickly and left the four people in silence as they crossed over the footbridge. Dirge watched their approach with a hardened gaze, nodding and backing up when Brynjolf passed him. When Vekel finally looked up from his work, he greeted Brynjolf with a raised brow. "Proteges?" He asked quietly and with smidge of confusion.

Brynjolf shook his head and shoved Etienne forward. "See to Etienne before the lad collapses, then get Rune to watch over him from there."

Etienne opened his mouth to protest, but Lydia cut him off before he could start. "And get him a hot meal, and something to drink. He's had a rough few weeks."

The housecarl retrieved the same coin purse Brynjolf had attempted to loot eariler, tossing a few gold septims onto the counter. "You have Thane Mitchell to thank for that, next time you see him. Get some rest."

That garnered looks from Brynjolf and Vekel. Etienne flushed, remaining silent but nodding in thanks. Lydia said nothing more and turned away.

"We should keep going." Delphine urged. "We can't afford to linger. Brynjolf, lead."

The group scurried off, leaving Etienne alone with Vekel in an awkward silence. The barkeep shook his head, collecting the septims and counting them out. He let out a sharp whistle, tucking the coins into his apron. "Generous lad, this Thane Mitchell. Is he-?"

"He got me away from the Thalmor, Vekel." Etienne quickly interjected. "I owe him my life, and now ten septims as well."

* * *

The dank air of the Ratway Warrens was a step down from the Flagon. Lydia's general disgust with the state of the place made itself clear in her wrinkled nose and frequent noises of disgruntlement as she tried to kick <i>whatever</i> she just stepped in off of her steel boots. Every time the metal made it's telltale clack against the floor, both Delphine and Brynjolf winced. Stealth clearly wasn't in the Housecarl training regimen.

"We're almost there," Brynjolf muttered to his followers. "It's that door, at the far end."

He stepped forward and was about to raise his torch for better light when Delphine grabbed his arm and pushed him backwards. The Breton was a stiff as a board, with one hand on her blade. She was drawing it out slowly, a foot of naked steel sliding out of the leather sheath. Lydia had mirrored the older woman's position. Both warriors had their gazes locked on the little alcove ahead, on the slight swish of yellow that appeared there.

"It's been a too long, Grandmaster." Called out a voice as smooth as fresh ice.

Brynjolf's blood ran cold.

From the shadows stepped a tall figure cloaked in black and yellow robes. The thalmor agent slowly drew back his hood, a gloating smirk on his face. He was armed with a spell in either hand.

"An eternity would be too short." Delphine replied icily.

"Die, bastard elf!" Lydia roared.

In the blink of an eye, Brynjolf was shoved backwards as the two women charged forward to meet the elf. A flame spell illuminated the room as it was thrown at Delphine. She blocked it with her shield while simultaneously drawing her blade out. Fire danced along the stone, chasing down Delphine and Lydia as they dodged the trails and made for the Thalmor Agent.

He was clever, that was true enough. The elf was keeping his distance and using ranged spells to ensure it stayed that way. Fire and lightning kept the warriors at bay. As long as they could not reach the mage, he was safe from their swords. He would run out magicka eventually, but it was not going to be soon.

A bolt thrown haphazardly in Brynjolf's direction forced the thief to move quickly away. In his haste he momentarily locked eyes on Delphine's sword. It was briefly lit up by the lightning, with runes flashing across the steel. Despite it all he found his focus remained there until the next bolt of lightning came sparking towards him.

Brynjolf jumped back, drew a knife from his belt, and grasped it firmly in hand. He lunged forward and threw it to straight at the Thalmor's forehead. It was a mix of the knife being lodged between his eyes and Delphine's sword piercing into his back that did the Thalmor in. Just as soon as combat started it was over, and Brynjolf found himself shivering despite the fire spell's heat. As casually as pulling an ax from a chopping block, Delphine plucked his knife from the Thalmor's head and passed it back to him.

Delphine emitted a low growl and kicked the Thalmor's corpse aside, rushing forward to bang a fist against the metal door. "Time to pick up the pace." She declared.

Staring, Brynjolf's jaw tensed. "Grandmaster?" He questioned.

Lydia matched his look with one just as cold, tapping her sword against the dirt. "You heard her. Get us to Esbern before another one of those bastards catches up." 


	16. happy canada day, here's some semi-porn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not dead and exams are over. Sorry for the lack of updates, but I'll try to post more over the summer. this one's really short because i wanted to get up a special for canada day but the chapter as a whole wasn't ready yet. so have mitch jerkin off as a peace offering. yeah. as always you can find me on tumblr at iseektheholygrail.tumblr.com, if you have any questions about the story hmu. also check out iseektheholygrail.tumblr.com/tagged/aonas-backstage for updates and behind the scenes tomfoolery about the story/mitchell

  
The Companions were nice and all, but there were days when Mitchell wanted nothing more than to backflip away from Jorrvaskr while flipping them all off while the fuck you song played in the background. He never thought he'd ever meet a bunch rowdier than his high school grad class, and yet here they were. Partying harder than his team at drama fest and his family at a reunion with open alcohol combined. Truly he had fallen in with the college frat bros of Skyrim.   
  
_”Fuck my life.”_  He whispered to himself.  
  
Mitch turned over for what must have been the fiftieth time since he’d first crashed into the cot. His limbs groaned in protest from the effort. Sleep was as far away as home at the moment, proven by the past hour of insomnia.   
  
In defeat, he pushed himself out of bed and pulled back on his hoodie and shoes. If he couldn’t sleep, he could at least cut his laziness and actually get washed up. No one paid any mind to the man who slipped by the feast and out the back door.  
  


* * *

  
The cool night air was a blessing against Mitchell’s sweat-slick skin. His muscles were still aching from the strain of training and the failed attempts at sleep. Exhaustion settled in his bones but refused to actually overtake him. With his feet protesting at every step, he walked onto the sandy shore of the river and kicked off his sneakers.   
  
A nearby stump became the shelf for his clothing. Every item was slowly stripped off with an accompanying groan and folded meticulously before being set safely on the stump. After double-checking that the stump was in sight, Mitch turned and ran straight into the river.  
  
Freezing water welcomed him, refreshing Mitchell’s energy and waking him back up. He let out a breathless laugh as he resurfaced. The sound echoed around him and he basked in it. For a moment he was home again, a teenager back in the woods with friends, rushing through the trees to reach the creek. He was fishing off the docks with his mother, practicing for the upcoming trout derby. He was with Sara and Gabe, watching fireworks on Canada day at the shore, a few weeks after his high school graduation. He was seventeen again, young and carefree, immortal in the light of the moon and the explosion of colors in the sky.  
  
The next day it had been just him and Sara, fucking like their lives depended on it in the back of his truck after skinny dipping. The memory came back to Mitchell and hit him like a brick. The distant feeling of her soft curves pressed up against him, moaning into his ear as the water dripped around them and soaked the towel and the truck bed indiscriminately. He licked his lips and he could taste her on them, could taste the coolers they’d shared afterwards, could taste the freedom of life after graduation.  
  
She was warm and wet and pliant above him, riding him hard and rough and fast. Her bites would leave marks he’d get glared at for for days to come, and her lipstick stained his throat with red. He let his hands wander and grope at her ass, squeezing it in his palms. She was perfect, with stretch marks that set his fingertips on fire as he rubbed at them, smooth thighs that wrapped around his hips and kept him grounded.   
  
That particular memory never failed to get him fired up before, and it stayed true even universes away. Mitch kicked his way towards the bank and leaned against it, letting his hand make the slow descent down his chest and slip ever closer towards his end goal. The memory was a fond one, but here it served as a reminder that he had not gotten laid since he first touched ground on this world. He hadn’t had the chance to get himself off in forever either. And by God, he was rectifying that issue even if he died trying.   
  
The mudcrab that pinched his toe and nearly caused him to rip his dick directly off clearly had other ideas. But fuck that mudcrab, because it chose exactly the wrong moment to attack the human invading its territory. Upon the point of no return, Mitch felt something sharp grab at his toe and pull. It came too late, and he came anyways, right on top of that fucking mudcrab.   
  
Served the bastard right for interrupting him.


	17. A Water Dancer Never Falls (But his mood sure does swing a lot)

The sore toe he woke up with in the morning was completely worth it. Mitch found most of his tension had worn off the night before and for once he was legitimately awake and eager to begin his day. For the other companions, it was rather unnerving. They had grown used to seeing the man stumble out of bed and be still half asleep for at least two hours while he complained about the lack of coffee. Then lo and behold, he was suddenly up and energized one morning, doing push ups in the training area while Ria sat on his back and scrolled through the music on his phone.  
  
“I honestly didn’t think you had it in you.” Ria said with amusement as she sampled through the Fall Out Boy albums.   
  
“I used to wake up every Saturday at five in the morning for hockey at six.” Mitch replied with a winded laugh. “If I could do that for thirteen years of my life, I can do anything. I just needed to find my stride again.”  
  
Ria laughed at that. “Then I’m glad you’ve found it. And I really would like to see you play the game sometime.”  
  
“Give me two days to build some sticks, and you can play it with me.” Mitch said with a triumphant grin as he reached his fiftieth push up. “Teach ya how to score and everything.”  
  
He waggled his eyebrows, and Ria snickered. “I look forward to that.”

* * *

  
As it turned out, getting the pieces for two sticks wasn’t all that difficult. Mitchell had put one together years ago, in one of his wood shop classes. It wasn’t all that different than that, except he didn’t have a bandsaw. Eorlund watched him with mild curiosity as he attached the blade onto the shaft and sanded it down until it was smooth. Mitch regretted the fact he couldn’t varnish the stick or tape the blade like he wanted to, but he did add in leather grips and made sure each had a decent flex to the blade. The rudimentary wooden sticks weren’t quite the fiberglass Easton one he had, but they would do for teaching Ria.   
  
Mitch also took the chance to make a suitable wooden ball to take the puck’s place. The woodwork was a calming process that he had forgotten he loved so much back in high school. When he got back home, maybe he’d pick it back up again. Eorlund occasionally putting in questions was actually okay with him and not annoying. Man, if Mitch had forgotten how chilled out getting off made him. He’d have to find more alone time in the coming weeks if he seriously wanted to keep his blood pressure at a reasonable level.  
  
Two days later and Mitch managed to set up two makeshift nets out behind Jorrvaskr and roped Ria into a quick one-on-one. She took to it with ease, picking up slapshots especially quickly. Mitch let her take shots on him, and more than a few got in despite his best efforts to block. He played left wing, in his defense. Goaltending wasn’t his forte.  
  
It didn’t take long for Eorlund to clue into that as he watched the two whelps at their play. As he watched, he observed Mitchell’s movements and reactions to his situation. The old smith hadn’t had much time to look over the newest recruit before, but his brief stint with crafting the sticks had piqued Eorlund’s interest. It was by luck he made a connection to the way Mitchell played his game and how he could gain a leg up with weaponry. Thus, while Ria and Mitch scuffled, Eorlund took notes.   
  
Once the hockey game was dropped off and turned into an impromptu dance lesson after Ria caught interest in some of the background music, the final piece of Eorlund’s puzzle clicked into place. 

* * *

 

"Here, try this."  
  
Eorlund held out the final product of his notes for Mitchell's inspection. It was a spear, the shaft made of pine wood and the tip crafted from Skyforge steel. Strips of blue and gold cloth were wrapped around the neck, tied tightly with two short tails hanging off. There was a dragon head wood-burnt onto the shaft, right underneath the cloth strips.   
  
Mitchell ran his hand over the wood, his reflection wavering in the blade. Strangely enough the spear felt at home in his smooth hands. He looked up at Eorlund in confusion and caught the other man nodding.   
  
"It was a misjudgment to put you with a sword or an axe. Hopefully this will be more suitable." Eorlund explained with a smile. "From what I watched in your games, you are used to moving more fluidly. You need something to reflect that. Spears are more commonplace in Hammerfell, but I have seen capable fighters come North before. I will teach what I know, but it would still be wise to seek lessons elsewhere as well."  
  
Mitch considered it with a befuddled expression. "Uh, thank you?"  
  
"You're not done yet, whelp." Eorlund replied with a twinkle in his eyes.   
  
The smith stood aside, pulling away a cloth from beside the forge. Underneath it was revealed to be a dark shortbow and a quiver full of steel arrows. Eorlund picked up the bow, holding it out for Mitchell to take.   
  
“You’ll want to train with Aela to get used to using a bow. Dragons are not going to land just for you to kill them, so you want to be able to bring the fight to them and not ruin your back doing so."  
  
Mitch shook his head, scratching lightly at the wood. "Why wou- You realize I can't pay you back right? My credit card doesn't work here."  
  
"Ending the dragon crisis will be payment enough, lad."  
  
Eorlund smiled at him, and Mitch felt his heart burst in his chest. Knowing he would end up inevitably disappointing the old smith was a guilt added onto a swiftly growing list. The happy mood that had returned to him threatened to leave once more as a heaviness settled in his lungs. Mitchell knew he could only let him down, no matter what Eorlund believed. 

* * *

Knock. Draw. Aim. Release.   
  
The mechanics of archery were easy to pick up on. The skill, not so much. Mitchell landed his arrows in the red and blue and black, in the stone behind the targets, in the ground in front of it. Each shot he took shared one thing in common. They each failed to hit the white centre.   
  
Aela watched him with cautious eyes. She could feel the tension rolling off of him in waves, could smell the anxiety that grew with every arrow fired. The Nord woman shook her head, wondering inwardly how one man's moods could swing between extremes so often. When he first stepped near the range for training he had been full of careful hope. After only ten minutes of practise, disappointment overtook him. It was obvious archery was not the only thing the man would have to work on.   
  
"That's enough." Aela called out before Mitch could knock another arrow.   
  
The man hesitated before slinging his bow back over his shoulder and returning to the warrior's side. He was meek in his steps.   
  
"Are you sure? I still haven't hit the centre." Mitch asked, shifting his weight awkwardly as he glanced down.   
  
"No." Aela admitted. "But just because a man cannot be dropped in one hit, does not mean a man cannot be dropped at all."   
  
Mitchell raised an eyebrow. "He can't be dropped by me if I've been fucked up by him already." He countered.   
  
Aela snorted and shook her head. "No, and that would be my first point. Don't hold."  
  
Met with a look of confusion, Aela continued.   
  
"Your muscles tense up when you hold. You want your back doing the hard work. You need to draw, anchor, and fire in a fluid motion. You don't want to be the one to fuck yourself over before your opponent even reaches you."  
  
"But what about aiming?" Mitch protested.   
  
"Aiming is for tourneys and still firing." Aela explained. "You aren't going to be out there fighting strawmen. You need to be as swift as the dragons you're firing at. Your eyes know where the arrow will go. You need to trust your eyes."   
  
"I can't even trust my eyes to see properly without help." Mitch grumbled, tapping his glasses.   
  
"If you can trust your eyes to follow the sway of Farkas' arse as he walks while you're dead drunk, you can trust your eyes here." Aela teased, causing Mitchell to splutter in denial.  
  
"That sight of yours knows more than you think. Take a deep breath and try again."  
  
Once more Mitch stood with his bow in hand. Inhaling and following Aela's instruction, he quickly knocked his arrow once more and drew it back. This time when he drew it back his didn't hesitate. He let it fly in one motion.   
  
His first arrow missed. His third hit the inner blue ring. His seventh took the white.   
  
Aela smiled, and Mitchell felt his discouragement dissipate with each following shot.

* * *

Melee training was harder, as well as infinitely more entertaining for Aela and Kodlak. The Harbinger had Mitchell out on the river, perched across slippery rocks while barefoot and spearing at the fish in the water. His hoodie and t-shirt lay in Aela’s arms with his phone, safe from being soaked as he fell off the rocks again and again and into the chilly water. His hair was plastered to his head and pushed back out of his eyes, messy curls held back by their sopping weight. By some miracle, the glasses holder that he’d set up around his frames did their job and kept them on his face while he continued to topple off the rocks.   
  
Despite the fact that his arse was probably bruised beyond belief and his calves ached like never before, Mitch couldn’t remember when he last had this much fun. Hell, he used to do shit like this all the time with Gabe, smacking each other around with sticks over the little creak, trying to reenact Robin Hood. Memories long forgotten came back to him over the course of his awkward footing failures. Slowly but surely, Mitchell found his balance on the rocks.  
  
Two hours after he began, he speared his first fish. Three hours in, and he managed to get five more. It was with immense pride Mitchell brought each fish to the basket beside Kodlak. Shoddy steps turned into a more graceful type of dance, an expectation of where the rush would hit his feet and a way to counterbalance himself.   
  
Even if Mitchell didn’t see his progress, Aela and Kodlak did. The members of the circle shared knowing smiles as he came back to them with the sun shining off of his water-slicked skin and a proud grin on his face. He fell less and less, and their hopes rose.  
  
Under his breath, Mitchell kept repeating  _“A water dancer never falls.”_  
  
Kodlak and Aela knew that he wouldn’t let them down, no matter what Mitchell believed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yooooo finally managed to get this to work for me. thanks to every single one of the followers of this thing for your patience. as always you can find me over at iseektheholygrail.tumblr.com or trickstersheir.tumblr.com 
> 
> also!! this is the last filler chapter for awhile. We'll be getting back to plot next chapter, with the return of Delphine, Lydia, and Esbern. so yeah kudos, comment, do whatever, have fun.


	18. Weaboos and Weaponry

"Well, fuck me sideways. Skyrim has fucking everything, doesn't it?"   
  
Mitchell’s awe was mixed with the slightest hint of contempt, voiced as he attempted to yank his still-decent arrows out of the hagraven he’d managed to finally drop.   
  
“I mean, giant ass spiders, fucking bears, goddamn dragons, and now this! A metric fuckton of amazonian spellslingers in fur bikinis. Life is truly amazing.”  
  
Lydia snickered, slinging her sword back into its sheath and making her way over the pile of corpses. She patted the dragonborn on the shoulder, ruffling his hair fondly as they returned to the rest of the group. She spared a glance to Farkas, who was wiping grime off of his greatsword and straggling behind.   
  
"I have to give your company credit, Farkas." Lydia remarked when he caught up. "Mitchell's hitting his mark now. Soon enough, he'll be able to spear things other than fish."   
  
"You'd best be careful, housecarl. Or it may be you he's spearing." Farkas replied.   
  
"Or you. There’s an equal opportunity." Lydia said with a smirk.   
  
Farkas gave Mitchell and Lydia an odd look when they both snickered. They didn't bother to explain. 

* * *

 

Sky Haven temple had been described by Esbern as a legend full of wonder and awe. While Mitch could certainly see the grandness of the architecture and the artistry behind the relief carvings, he noticed the uneasy feeling the place gave him more quickly. Wear and tear was apparent in everything. The air was musty, and Mitch had to step aside to have a coughing fit. The wooden table and chairs were also showing signs of rot. It was clear enough that the years of disuse had fallen hard on the temple. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Mitch wondered if the structure was even stable.   
  
His companions didn't seem to share his concerns. Lydia and Farkas drifted over to a side room, while Esbern immediately went towards the start of the main wall and Delphine set to lighting braziers. Mitchell himself stopped minding almost instantly though, for he set his eyes directly on the centre of the famous Alduin’s Wall. There sat the largest dragon in the carving, whose wings framed the entire wall and whose single stone eye seemed to follow Mitch as he stepped forward.   
  
Mitchell raised a cautious hand up to the dragon carving. He gently ran the tips of his fingers over the stone. Despite everything else in the room having a chill to it, the stone seemed warm to his touch, like it had back in Bleak Falls Barrow and in Ustengrav. Yet this time he didn’t feel anything slam into him. No chanting filled his ears, and no wind was sucked from him. Instead he felt only... comfort?  
  
Maybe it was because this was the first dragon he’d seen in weeks that hadn’t been trying to actively kill him. Maybe it was just because the carving looked fucking cool. Either way, he pressed his palm against the snout and ran his other hand over the intricate scale lines. Mitch was transfixed by the dragon on the carving, captured even more by its images than the screaming carvings in the word walls. He bit his lip and cocked his head, trying to figure out what in the hell the artist did to make it feel like the dragon was watching him.   
  
The musings were cut short by Esbern clearing his throat. “If you’re finished with the… stroking... of Alduin, perhaps you’d like to rejoin us here?”   
  
Mitch lowered his hand awkwardly, giving a pained laugh. “Uh, I s’pose I’m the only one who feels like this thing is watching me, then? Like those paintings in haunted houses with the eyes that follow you around.”   
  
Delphine raised an eyebrow. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
Recognizing it would just waste time to try and explain it, Mitch shook his head and laughed again. “Nevermind. It’s nothing. You were saying?”   
  
While Esbern rambled on about prophecies and legends and incredibly old people, Mitchell took a quick snap of the dragon carving and sent it to his brother. He slipped his phone back into his pocket just as Esbern turned back to him. For a moment, Mitchell almost expected Esbern to turn into his high school science teacher and yell at him for having his phone out in class.   
  
“So, do you understand?” Esbern asked instead, very calmly and scholarly.   
  
Mitchell blinked. “Could you repeat that? I think I misheard you.”   
  
The dirty look Delphine shot him could have dropped an elephant right there.   
  
“Dragons, prophecy, Alduin banished, we need him dead.” Delphine summed up curtly.   
  
“The wall talks about a shout.” Esbern repeated. “Do you know of any shout that could fell a dragon from the sky?”  
  
Mitchell raised an eyebrow. “A really fucking loud one?”   
  
If looks could kill, Delphine’s would have made Mitchell into a draugr. “Then we have no other choice. You’ll have to ask the Greybeards.”   
  
Mitch shrugged. “Aight. I’ll take Farkas and Lydia and we’ll ask, no problemo.”  
  
He blatantly ignored Delphine's disgruntled expression and skipped off to find the other two. 

 

* * *

“Mitchell, look at this.”   
  
Lydia called him over softly when he sought her out, raising something off of the table. Mitch saw a brief glint of steel in the dim torchlight and froze as the blade was unsheathed. It looked like a katana to him, long, sharp, and impossible for him to wield without feeling like the massive weeaboo he was back in high school.   
  
"It's called Dragonbane." Lydia murmured, admiring the blade. "Forged specifically to kill dragons. I've heard about it, in the old stories. They say the champion of Cyrodiil once wielded it. It must have been lying here for ages!"   
  
"Fancy." Mitch remarked. "You gonna take it?"   
  
Lydia gave him a curious look. "You don't intend to? It's supposed to be the dragonborn's ultimate weapon."   
  
Mitch let out bark of a laugh, shaking his head. "You've seen me sparring, Lyd. It'd be worth fuck all in my hands. Besides, I've got Eorlund's toys to keep me busy."   
  
He patted the spear strapped to his back and the bow slung over his shoulder. Lydia shrugged, moving to replace the blade.   
  
"You could take it, y'know." Mitchell said, stopping her.   
  
"Delphine and Esbern will want it kept here." Lydia protested.   
  
"Fuck that! They aren't the ones risking their asses in a dragon fight just to help protect mine. If I'm gonna keep hauling you along, you might as well get somethin' outta it." Mitch replied, sounding fully confident in his reasoning.   
  
"That blade ain't worth shit if it just sits here and rusts."   
  
Lydia pursed her lips but made no further protest. The blade was steady in her grasp, and balanced in her hand. Perhaps it would serve them better in her hands. A shield maiden who knew how to handle a blade, versus the man who could barely lift one... And the dragons were exactly scarce these days. Yes, perhaps Mitchell was right.   
  
She followed Mitchell out of the armoury, the new sword belt a welcome weight at her side. The Champion of Cyrodiil had never been Dragonborn either, and it had served them well enough. It would suit her just fine. 

* * *

 

Farkas had found the bed quarters first. When Mitchell and Lydia finally found him, he was collapsed across one of the beds, an old tome raised above his head and his eyes focused intently on the pages. He did not look up when Mitchell stepped towards him, deaf to the quiet echo of Mitchell’s sneakers squeaking against the stone. It was only the slow dip in the bed as Mitch sat near his legs that snapped him from his reverie. He left out a noise of surprise, dropping the heavy tome onto his chest with an “oomf!”  
  
Mitchell winced in sympathy, whilst Lydia let out a chuckle. “Doing a bit of light reading, companion?”   
  
Farkas chucked the book at her chest. Lydia caught it easily and raised a scathing eyebrow at him. Between the two of them, Mitchell shook his head and muttered “Nords” under his breath.   
  
“Dragon Language: Myth No More.” Lydia read aloud, dusting the book off the cover. “Taking up languages?”   
  
“Found it over there.” Farkas shrugged, gesturing to a cluster of wooden shelves by the far wall. “Looked interesting.”   
  
"Let me see."  
  
Mitchell fell back against Farkas as he grabbed the book, flicking it open and skimming the pages.   
  
"Those things we found in Bleak Falls Barrow and in Ustengrav, those were called word walls?" He muttered, squinting at the words. "You'd think they'd be more creative with the naming."  
  
Lydia raised an eyebrow. "All the things you could criticize dragons on, and you choose their naming system? Not the fire breath, or the village sacking. Naming systems."  
  
"I'm just saying, I would've at least made it something interesting, if I was a dragon." Mitch retorted defensively.   
  
"You are a dragon." Farkas murmured, cocking his head to the left. "And you called a halberd a 'pointy axe spear shit thing' when you didn't know the name."  
  
Mitchell went very quiet as Lydia let out a snort. Farkas shook his head with a thin smile, bringing a hand up to ruffle Mitchell's hair fondly; which changed Mitchell's grumpy pout into a half-grin. He perked up into the touch, moving Farkas's hand back when he went to take it away. He took the hint and entangled his fingers in the curly locks, pulling a sigh from Mitchell.   
  
"We should take the book, at least. Start translating the walls we find." Mitch said with a yawn. “Could be useful. But like, later. We gotta get back to High Hrothgar.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time coming. sorry bout that, school started again and i've been swamped with projects and assignments lol. also, mitchell's favorite animes were soul eater and black butler, with a side of dragon ball z and naruto. i have never been into any of them personally tbh


	19. Talk Dragon To Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not dead. I'm nursing a broken wrist and suffering through a bad bout of depression, but I am very much still kickin'

In the split second after Mitchell had announced who exactly had told him about a shout to knock a dragon from the sky and before Arngeir suddenly lost his chill, Mitch was admittedly not sure what he expected. Whatever it was, it was decidedly not “this old man is going to react like a giant pissbaby.” Fate dictated then that that would be exactly what happened.

Mitch used to wonder how Loki must have felt in the one incredible moment in _Thor_ where Odin flat out “HUARGHHHGHGHHG”’d at him violently. When Arngeir snapped at him, Mitchell no longer had to wonder. He was shocked, caught off guard, and mildly to highly distressed. He jumped a little, jolting backwards as he defensively threw up his hands.

Arngeir seemed to hover between frustration and irritation. “You went to those brutes? The Blades, of all people?! You yourself said you weren't a fighter and yet-”

Mitchell probably shouldn't have cut him off, but he really wasn't in the mood for a lecture.

“Hey hey hey, there's no need to go full Odin on my ass here, okay? You weren't giving me shit, and Delphine helped me out, and honestly at this point isn't the stopping of the potential end of the world a bit more important than a pissing match between the Greybeards and the Blades? Also, I still need to get home. That's very much my endgame goal here. So if fighting this Alduin dude means I get to fall back into my own shitty bed in my own shitty apartment with my kitten and a bag of chips and a bottle of whiskey, then Jesus Christ I'm gonna fuckin’ try.”

The look Arngeir shot him made Mitch’s scowl fade a little, his heart beating a little faster as he stepped back and tried to shrink down. His sudden stroke of boldness was wavering. Thank God for Wulfgar stepping in, whispering words Mitchell could only partially grasp and chiding Arngeir into stepping back.

It would not be the last time Mitch found himself almost going into cardiac arrest that day, or even that week. Skyrim seemed determined to kill him on pure shock alone.

* * *

 

Clearing the path up the mountain to speak to Paarthurnax might’ve been hard for some, but Mitchell liked to pride himself on good old Canadian endurance. He didn’t wake up at 5am on Saturdays every weekend for the entirety of his elementary, middle, and high school careers for Hockey in a freezing cold rink at 6am, just to get knocked off a fucking mountain by a little wind and snow. He trekked up like a goddamn trooper and he enjoyed it! Lydia and Farkas, despite their nordic roots, were not half as pleased with the weather, nor half as impressed with Mitchell’s determination.

“This is getting ridiculous.” Farkas growled through gritted teeth, grabbing Mitchell once more and yanking him back before he tumbled from the edge. “You need to watch yourself.”

“Easy on the goods, bud.” Mitchell reminded him, adjusting his borrowed cloak and pulling his hood back up. “I’m fine.”

Farkas shot him a glare. “The long way down won’t be so easy on your goods, _bud._ ”

Mitchell gave a dismissive shrug and continued on, ignoring the weariness and the pain in his legs. “One more turn and then we’re done. I think. Hopefully.”

“Thank Talos.” Lydia muttered. “It feels like it's taken us months to walk up this damned mountain. I could swear it's a new year already.”

* * *

Mitchell had been wrong, as Murphy’s Law often dictated. It took at least five more turns, and meeting three goats, along with passing one very loud frost troll, before they finally reached the clear peak. Mitchell's throat was raw with the shouts he had done, and he was beginning to regret not bringing a water skin or something to drink from.

“Holy fucking Christ.” Mitch rasped, bending over and bracing his hands on his knees as he let his head and lungs adjust to the change in the air.

Straightening up slowly and stretching his aching limbs, Mitchell allowed himself a moment to simply breathe. His throat was still raw and dry. It had started to tickle like it did before he got a cold. He tried rubbing at it, but the itch was internal. Coughing slightly, Mitch grumbled and sought relief by grabbing at a lump of soft snow and stuffing it in his mouth. If nothing else, it would cool him down.

Farkas gave him an odd glance. Mitch brushed him off with a shrug. “Sore throat. Shouting will do that.”

“My thane?” Lydia called sharply, from a short distance up ahead.

“Don’t judge me.” Mitch coughed. “I’m Canadian, this shit is how you function without water.” 

“Thane.” She tried again.

Lydia was ignored in favor of a few more coughs and Mitch rubbing furiously at the sides of his throat while grumbling about needing a winter jacket.

“MITCHELL!”

“There’s no need to sho-” Mitch trailed off as he turned around, and came face to face with the improbable once more.

“Sweet mother of fuck.” He exhaled, meeting the curious gaze of the cream colored dragon perched up on what looked to be another word wall.

The dragon uncurled itself like a cat and smoothly strided forward, bowing it’s head down to level with Mitchell. It cocked it’s head to the left and blew a thin smoke from it’s nostrils in amusement.

“Drem Yol Lok.” The dragon rasped in a deep tone that rumbled in his chest. “Greetings, wunduniik. I am Paarthurnax. Who are you? What brings you to my strunmah ... my mountain?”

Mitchell stood frozen, gaping, still with shock. He exhaled only after a minute, blinking furiously and shaking his head and closing his mouth. It took him a moment before he could reply, with pure excitement in his tone. “ _Holy shit,_ you’re a dragon! And you’re not trying to kill me! Holy fuck!”

Paarthurnax cocked his head to the other side and chuckled deeply, blinky slowly. “Breathe, wunduniik. You have only just arrived, and it would be a paak, a shame, for you to faint now.”

“Breathing. Right, yeah. Breathe. In and out. Breathing. Right.” Mitchell exhaled, pushing back his hair. “Yeah. Sorry, man, it’s just. Fuck, it’s nice to meet a dragon that isn’t trying to murder me right now. Been exactly zero of those so far. And I really like dragons, so that was honestly really disappointing!”

“You talk much yet say little.” Paarthurnax observed. “Speak plainly. What brings you here?”

Mitchell paused, mouth dry. He thought for a moment and shook his head. “I’m trying to find my way home, but my home’s in a whole other fuckin’ universe, and apparently I’m dragonborn, and-.”

Paarthurnax blew more smoke. “You are dovahkiin? Dragonborn? Then drem; patience. There are formalities that must be observed, at the first meeting of two of the dov. By long tradition, the elder speaks first. Hear my Thu'um! Feel it in your bones. Match it, if you are Dovahkiin!"

He turned slowly, ambling over to the word wall and facing it. Paarthurnax swished his tail slowly back and forth like a waiting cat as Mitch jogged to stand beside him. He took a slow step back before exhaling and letting forth a sharp breath of fire. The flames danced along the word wall in sharp lines, igniting one of the carvings and setting it aglow.

Mitch locked his eyes on the wall in fascination as Paarthurnax nudged him forward. He cautiously reached out a hand and pressed his palm flat against the heated stone. A rush of warmth flooded through him, erasing his wish for a winter coat and replacing it with sweat that formed on his brow. His tongue felt like he’d just chugged salsa made from ghost peppers, and his already raw throat felt like the inside of an ash tray. It was only for a moment, and then the moment passed, and Mitchell coughed a bout of smoke from his lungs.

“Yeah, _that’s_ not _scary_ at all.” He choked out.

Paarthurnax rapped his claws against the ground, bowing his head and letting an energy flow from him and into Mitchell, a bright yellow-orange light that flowed from Paarthurnax’s mouth and coiled around Mitchell’s feet. The energy spiraled up his body until it reached his throat and sank into the skin there. It soothed Mitchell’s throat as it sank in. Images of fire danced behind his eyes. Vaguely, in the back of his mind, Mitch was trying to make a joke about Targaryens.

"A gift, Dovahkiin.” Paarthurnax said softly. “ _Yol_. Understand Fire as the dov do. Now, show me what you can do. Greet me not as mortal, but as dovah!"

Mitchell swallowed deeply and inhaled. He rolled his shoulders and looked straight ahead at the elder dragon, licking his lips. _Here goes nothing. Here goes everything._ Mitch raised his head and shouted with everything he had. _”YOL!”_

The fire that shot from his lips didn’t scorch him, but warmed him like Tim’s after a long practice on the ice. It raced from him and melted the snow underneath Paarturnax into a puddle. Paarthurnax seemed to chuckle, making a deep raspy rattling and flaring his nostrils. “The dragonblood runs strongly in you, even as a joor, a mortal. It has been long since I have had the pleasure of speech with one of my own kind. You came with questions? Speak now.”

“Nice.” Mitchell said. “Right. So. Alduin, fighting, all that jazz. I need to fight him. And my friend Esbern, he found this thing. Alduin’s wall? That. And it claims that there’s a shout that can knock a dragon from the sky. I need to learn that shout, and I was hoping you’d know about it.”

Paarthurnax seemed to stiffen at that, a dark mood falling over him. “You speak of dragonrend. I should have known that a dovah sos would not seek me out for simple tinvaak with an old dovah. You seek your weapon against Alduin. I suspected as much, when his wings blackened the skies once more. Alduin and dovahkiin return together. Krosis, dovahkiin, but I know not the thu’um you speak for it cannot be known to me. Your kind created it as a weapon against the dov. It is impossible for my kind to even comprehend it. Why do you want this thu’um so badly?”

Mitchell blinked. “To fight Alduin my guy. He’s gotta be stopped.”

“Yes, Alduin. Zeymah. The elder brother. Gifted, grasping, and troublesome, as is so often the case with firstborn. But why, why must you stop Alduin?”

“Because it’s my best hope at getting home.” Mitchell said, voice cracking.

* * *

At the end of the day, walking down the mountain once more, and shivering all the way, Mitchell felt himself falling. Not physically, thankfully. But more travelling, more delay…

“The more I think I’ve learned about this place, the less I actually know.” Mitchell mused to himself. “Elder scrolls and time wounds and using time travel to learn words, running of to colleges, philosophical discussions with dragons, and wondering whether or not I’ll ever see home again.”

There was an arm around his shoulder, a thick limb pulling him closer as they walked down the mountain trail. Farkas ruffled his hair and squeezed his shoulder lightly. “We’ll get you home.” He rumbled confidently.

Mitchell quirked a smile at that. “Fingers crossed.”

But still, his mind wandered. _The elder brother. Gifted, grasping, and troublesome, as is so often the case with firstborn. Gifted, grasping, and troublesome…_ He’d heard that before, from his high school guidance counselor. He’d taken a sort of immature pride in it in grade 10. Hearing it to describe a literal dragon that was trying to destroy the world, that was a sort of a kick in the gut. He shouldn’t be drawing comparisons between himself and Alduin, and yet here he was. Stupid as it was-

“Something troubling you?” Lydia asked quietly, glancing over to her thane.

 _Fucking facial expressions._ “Not anything in particular. Just kinda tired.” Mitch shrugged. “I’ll sleep when we reach the inn, then in the morning we can head back to Skyhaven and double check with Esbern to see what he knows about Elder Scrolls.”

 


	20. The Old College Try

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mitchell, Farkas, and Lydia journey to Winterhold. The College gets a new asset. Septimus is a loony old man, but a loony old man who knows what he's doing. Delphine needs some ibuprofen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Mitchell insults Chatham, it's a deliberate friendly poke at the place in New Brunswick. A bit of a bonus for any of my fellow NBers lmao, don't take it as a harsh insult, it's just a bit of playful banter. 
> 
> Also, I'm finally finished my school year, so I'm hoping to update more in the summer. I know I haven't been active, and I am truly sorry. But hopefully I can work some shit out and go on strong.

A biting chill met them in Winterhold, making Mitchell shiver violently and causing Lydia and Farkas a slight discomfort. Though they were generally alright, Mitchell had to brace himself once more. He wasn’t sure if it would be more Canadian of him to tough it out without complaining or to want nothing more than to cuddle up in a ball in front of a fire with a warm quilt and a kitten. Or Farkas. And Lydia. He could probably talk them into seeing the benefits of shared body heat if he tried.

In the end, though, the most Canadian thing to do was glare bitterly and grumble to himself. He would’ve told the sky to get fucked if he wasn’t afraid of getting a mouthful of the falling shit for attempting it. At least he gained the comfort of the snow seemingly starting to lighten up on them as their carriage reached the city. Could it even be called a city? The buildings that weren’t buried in snow were old even by comparison to what Mitch had seen in Whiterun and Morthal. Almost everything looked to be run down. The deplorable weather certainly didn’t help.

Really, it was like Skyrim’s equivalent of Chatham. Mitchell vaguely wondered where all the crackheads were. Eh, best not to wonder too much about that. Better to just complain about the weather before he found himself buried in seven feet of snow and couldn’t complain anymore.

“Fucking Christ, and I thought Canadian winters were freezing.” Mitchell grumbled. “Am I just going to get progressively colder as we go on or is there a tropical beach part of this place I can retreat to?”

“There are hotsprings in Eastmarch.” Lydia replied idly as she gave him a wry smile. “With luck that’s where the elder scroll will be.”

Mitchell gave a snort and trudged through the freshly fallen snow. “This is getting ridiculous. I’ve been outside in blizzards and it’s been less fucking insane that this.”

He shook his head violently, dislodging a few of the snowflakes that had hit his glasses. With a deep breath he let out a booming shout that echoed around the city. _“LOK VAH KOOR!”_

In mere moments the skies cleared up, the snow drifting away as Mitchell’s self-proclaimed “zamboni shout” wiped away the thirty million tonnes of white bullshit in front of them. The stone pathway to the College of WInterhold revealed itself before them. At the very edge of the steps, a rather baffled looking high elf watched Mitchell and company approach.

Mitchell greeted her with a friendly smile, pushing back his hood and giving a small wave. “Hey, uh, Ma’am. We’re here to visit the college, could you let us in?”

The woman stared in a silenced shock, opening her mouth to speak before closing it a few times. When she finally found her voice, she let out a little laugh. “So you’re him then? You’re the dragonborn?”

“So I’m told.” Mitchell shrugged. “Names Mitchell. And yours is?”

“Faralda.” She replied, giving him a nod. “What is it you seek at our college, Mitchell?”

“Secret dragonborny stuff, mostly. Couple of books, possibly a scroll. I could do with a place to warm up in too.” Mitch said with a grin tossed her way. “Mind leading us up?”

Faralda gave him another nod and turned away, strutting up the path and giving a quick spiel on the college as they walked. It was a comfortable conversation, almost exactly like his first introduction to the STU campus when he was applying there. Mitchell quickly settled into a back and forth banter with Faralda while Farkas and Lydia shared a glance before trailing behind him dutifully.

* * *

 

Past the arguing mages in the courtyard and through the heavy oak doors laid the Hall of the Elements. To the right was the door to the college library. Faralda helpfully pointed Mitchell towards it and informed he that he would need to speak with the librarian Urag.That task was easier said than done, to say the least.

Urag had to be the grumpiest orc Mitchell had met yet. Granted he hadn’t met too many orcs, but he imagined that they couldn’t possibly get much surlier than Urag was. He continued to imagine that right until it was revealed that Mitchell knew jack shit about the elder scroll he sought. The answer became clear then. The only orc who could get surlier than Urag was Urag himself. Really, Mitchell could do with less sass and more help.

“So you expect me to help you find an artifact you have no clue how to use, no idea how to operate, and no grasp of how much damage one could cause in the wrong hands?” Urag asked, dryly as stale toast.

Mitchell gave him a cool look. “Yeah, pretty much. Because without the artifact I have no clue on how to use, I can’t really be expected to save your world from a massive shitlizard. I think it’s kind of a simple request.”

Urag cocked a brow. “Don’t sass me, kid. There is nothing simple about an elder scroll, and I don’t think you can really simplify ‘Alduin’ like that.”

“Yes, you went through that whole ‘not simple’ thing. But besides, the bastard tried to scorch my ass, I’ll call him whatever I like. I happen to like shitlizard.” Mitchell replied. “Can you please just help us? I mean, it’s a fantastic opportunity to get the dragonborn in your debt, and the companions, and whatever guild the housecarls all sprout up from. And hey, if you need something along the way, I’m always game. It’s not the first time I’ve done the legwork for other people, it’s not gonna be the last.”

Urag narrowed his brow. He grumbled a bit, his chair creaking as he rose. “Tempting as that offer sounds, I’ll pass for now. But I won’t forget it.” He warned. “I might have something that can help, but you’ll need to wait a moment.”

His back was turned to them as he rummaged through his books. Mitchell shrugged and leaned against the desk, watching idly as Urag searched. He didn’t mind the wait; it gave him a chance to catch his breath and chill out for a moment. For a place so fucking cold, he didn’t know why he felt so heated here. It felt like eyes were lurking on the back of his neck, felt like the hair there was prickling up. Whatever was happening, it made Mitchell’s exhaustion multiply.

The sharp call of “I wouldn’t touch that if I were you” snapped Mitchell from his brooding. He glanced over to Farkas, who was quickly yanking his hand away from some sort of knick knack that was set upon Urag’s desk. Seeing as the orc’s back was still turned to them, Mitch couldn’t help but wonder if that prickly neck feeling was just Urag watching him. Could be.

Urag turned back to them with two heavy tomes, setting them down carefully. “These do not leave this library under any circumstances, understood?” He asked firmly.

“Got it. Thanks bud, you’re a saint.”

Mitchell immediately went for the tomes and took a seat in the nearest armchair. He settled back and flicked through the first one, _Ruminations on the Elder Scrolls_. It had looked unassuming at first, but as Mitchell skimmed the pages it swiftly became clear that whoever had written the tome had done so while on a fairly wicked LSD trip. That, or they were just batshit. Either way, the content wasn’t very encouraging.

“I don’t know if it’s just me or if it’s the book, but I can’t read a fuckin’ word of this.” Mitch muttered.

Urag of the ever perfect ears snorted. “Septimus Signus is the top specialist in Elder Scrolls lore, even if he can be a bit odd. He hasn’t been back here in several years, else I’d point you towards him. Septimus went north to study an old Dwemer artifact. I think he’s got an outpost along the way. You could probably find it if you tried.”

Internally dreading more walking and more freezing, Mitchell forced his best charming smile and nodded. “Thanks, dude. You’ve been a blessing. Just let me know if you ever need me to return the favor, eh?”

* * *

 

Even before they could leave the college and stumble off into the snowy abyss, Mitchell and his ever loyal Nords found themselves halted at the doors. One of the mages who was arguing before in the courtyard, the high elf one, was arguing yet again in the hall of the elements. The other mage stormed off and the high elf huffed pissily. He caught Mitchell’s eye with a sudden glance, and before he knew it, Mitchell found the high elf rapidly approaching him like an angry Avon lady.

“You there. You must be the dragonborn Faralda has been talking about, are you not?” The elf snapped.

Mitchell felt a disturbance in the force. He squirmed a bit under the high elf’s gaze, and the smiled he offered was cheap. “That would be me, and I’m not buying anything today, thank you.”

He attempted to shove past, but the elf was faster. “What business do you have at the college?” The elf demanded.

“Dragonborn business.” Farkas growled at him, his hand clenching into a fist as he stepped closer to Mitchell. “Private dragonborn business.”

Lydia’s hand was resting against her blade as she joined in. “If you’d kindly step aside,we’d like to get back to that business.”

Mitchell bit his lip as the elf regarded all three of them. The room smelled of sudden ozone, and Mitch’s heart was beating a little faster with each second that ticked away. He’d been lucky to only fight bandits so far. It wouldn’t be good to get into some crap right as they were finally making progress.

The universe didn’t seem to agree with him wholeheartedly on that, though it did have the common decency to send in a convenient dragon to help Mitchell get away from the elf. Thanks universe, awesome job.

A roar broke the uneasy silence, catching the elf off guard and causing him to reel back in sudden shock. Farkas and Lydia’s hands were both on their swords immediately, while Mitchell grabbed at the bow on his back.

“Sorry I can’t stay to talk about Jesus and all that, but I think that’s a bit important!” Mitchell said cheerily as he rushed forward and through the doorway with Farkas and Lydia in tow.

Out in the courtyard, the beast roared once more and spat a spray of ice across the snow, solidifying it immediately into chunks of ice. It reared up and beat it’s wings, and Mitchell sent an arrow flying right into the joint between it’s wing and it’s body before ducking behind a column. “Thanks, Aela.” He muttered as he quickly drew another arrow and sent it to the dragon’s throat.

The mages who were already slinging spells drew back at the sudden battle cries let loose by Farkas and Lydia as they threw themselves at the dragon’s legs, slashing left and right and causing it to lash out at them. It was with surprising dexterity that the two dodged each hit, and with great skill that they surged back and continued attacking. Mitch sent arrow after arrow at the dragon’s throat, attempting to pierce it in the mouth. He kept missing, though he was getting closer with each hit.

Spells flew around the courtyard as the college mages threw all of their power into the fight. Blasts of fire and lightning slammed into the dragon’s hide as fast as the strikes from Farkas and Lydia’s swords. Flame atronachs lashed out at the beast relentlessly, falling swiftly but making every hit count. As Mitchell dived behind another column once more, he could feel the dragon starting to wear down.

Mitch inhaled and exhaled slowly, going through his shouts mentally. With a five-second period for consideration before he leaped out again, he set a quick mantra of the word off in his head and tossed himself back into the battle. His next arrow struck the dragon right below it’s eye and caused it to let out a shrieking cry. Without any hesitation, Mitchell rushed forward and shouted while he had his chance. “ _YOL!”_

The burst of flame sidelined the dragon, making it cry out once more. Mitchell quickly knocked another arrow in his bow and let it fly, finally getting an arrow through the dragon’s eyeball. It’s cries cut Mitchell to the core. He forced himself to ignore it and loaded his bow again.

It was Farkas’s blow that finally brought the dragon down. His relentless hacking sliced through it’s leg, causing it to stumble and falter. Quickly Lydia jumped up on it’s back. At the same time that she drove her sword through the top of the dragons skull, Mitchell sent one last arrow right into it’s gaping maw. The dragon collapsed right as Lydia yanked her sword out and jumped down. It gave a final dying shriek as it immediately started to dissolve into a pile of ash. The soul rushed out, seeking out Mitchell immediately and flowing through him in a rush of bright light.

He felt any residual exhaustion was away as the dragon’s soul soaked into him. Taking another deep breath, he straightened up a little and laughed. The adrenaline rush hit him full force. In his sudden burst of energy he charged over to Lydia, helping her up from where she’d fallen back on her ass and giving her a hearty clap on the back. “Holy shit!” He exclaimed breathlessly.

Lydia joined him with a laugh. “All in a day’s work, is it not?”

She offered him a return clap as Farkas rushed over, slinging his sword back into his sheath. “Are you both alright?” He called worriedly.

“Absolutely aces.” Mitchell called back, tugging Lydia towards Farkas with him.

One of the mages stepped towards them, brushing ash off of their robes. She was tiny, the other one who’d been arguing in the courtyard when they’d first arrived. She glanced between the dragon bones and Mitchell with narrowed eyes and suspicious gaze.

“Mirabelle Irvine.” She introduced.

“Mitchell Xavier.” Mitchell replied. “This is Farkas of the Companions, and that’s Lydia. Sorry about the whole dragon thing. They seem to have a thing for hot young dragonborns with pretty blue eyes.” He joked.

Mirabelle looked unimpressed with him, offering nothing more than a shake of her head. “So that would be you.”

“Yeah, that’s me. Nice to meet you. I can’t stick around though, sorry!”

He tried his best to sound genuinely apologetic. Thankfully, Mirabelle seemed to buy it. “Then I won’t keep you long. But we always have room for a dragonborn at the college, should you wish to return.”

“I’ll think about, definitely. It’s a pretty nice place. Might wanna do something about the dragon corpse though.” Mitch grinned. “Do you take donations for scientific research?”

Mirabelle looked the dragon’s corpse up and down. “We do now.”

* * *

 

The trek out to Septimus’s outpost was long, cold, and full of Mitchell wishing skates were a thing in Skyrim. He also wanted an actual zamboni, some actually stable ice, and yellow brick road that led directly to where he wanted to go. It took a few hours of stumbling and searching before they finally located the rowboat. It took another ten minutes of digging around in a snowdrift and a bit of aided shouting for them to unearth the door to the outpost from underneath all of the freshly fallen snow.

Mitchell led the way down, stepping carefully on the icy stairs and keeping his eyes peeled. It wasn’t hard to find Septimus. His deep black robes stood out against the stark white snow and the faded golden… thing... He rambled on to himself, speaking in random and nonsensical words. At first he did not seem to notice the group at all. Septimus contented himself with puttering about around the weird contraption.

“Septimus? Mr Signus?” Mitchell called carefully, waiting to see if it would surprise the old man.

It barely made a dent. Septimus raised his head curiously and looked over, giving a greeting smile and a thousand yard stare. “When the top level was built, no more could be placed. It was and is the maximal apex.” He stated.

Mitchell pursed his lips. “Alright then, sure. Uh, Septimus, what brought you out here?”

Septimus continued to look not quite present as he replied. “This ice entombs the heart. The bane of Kagrenac and Dagoth Ur. To harness it is to know. The fundaments. The dwemer lockbox hides it from me. But the elder scroll gives insight deeper than the deep ones, to bring about this opening.”

Still 99% sure he was talking to a very tranquil madman, Mitchell bit his lip again and cocked his head aside. “Do you have one here? An elder scroll?”

He received a shake of the head from Septimus. “I have seen enough to know their fabric. The warp of air, the weft of time. But no, it is not in my possession.”

“So… where is the scroll? Do you know?” Mitchell asked softly.

“Here.” Septimus said confidently. “Well, here as in this plane, Mundus. Tamriel. Nearby, relatively speaking. On the cosmological scale, all is nearby.”

Mitchell felt the beginnings of a migraine stirring in the back of his head. “Mr Signus, can you please help me find the elder scroll? It’s important. I can-”

“One block may lift the other. A clever man. Septimus will give you what you want, but you must give him something in return.” Septimus cut him off, effectively summarizing Mitchell’s offer without having even heard it.

“I’ll bite. What is it?”

Septimus offered another distant smile and gestured to the weird golden thing. “You see this masterwork of the Dwemer? Deep inside is their greatest knowings. Septimus is clever among men, but the idiot child compared to even the dullest of the Dwemer. Lucky then, they left behind their own way of reading the elder scrolls. In the depths of Blackreach, one yet lies.”

“Where is this Blackreach?” Lydia asked, furrowing her brow. She could vaguely recall the name, but not where from.

“Under deep. Below the dark. The hidden keep, Tower Mzark. Aftland, the point of puncture. Delve deep, and Blackreach lies just beyond. Though not all can enter there, Septimus knows the hidden key to loose the lock to jump beneath the deathly rock. Two things I give to you, two shapes; one edged, one round. The round one to tune, dwemer music soft and subtle to open the cleverest gate. The edged lexicon, for inscribing. A hunk of metal to us, to the Dwemer a full library of knowledge. And yet, empty. Find Mzark and it’s sky dome. The machinations there will read the scroll and lay the lore upon the cube. Trust Septimus, he knows you can know, man out of space and time.”

Mitchell felt himself tense a little. “You know? That I’m not from here? From this world?”

Septimus gave yet another impossible to read smile. “You have an air about you, son of the North. You have a gift. Septimus can entrust this task to you, your air tells him so.”

Ambling forward, Septimus meekly patted Mitchell on the shoulder with a feeble hand. “You have a calling. Septimus has a calling. We will answer it with help. Luck be with you.”

By that point, 99% had peaked to a full hundred, and Mitchell was definitely sure this Septimus guy was off his rocker. But if Lord of the Rings had taught him anything, the weird ass wizards usually were right about things like this. It was the best lead they had, and the best they could hope for for now. With a look sent to both Farkas and Lydia, Mitchell turned to leave. _It’s the best we’ve got._

“Thank you, Septimus, for this.” Mitchell called back, remembering his manners. “Are you alright down here? It must get lonely.”

Septimus gave him yet another vague smile. “Septimus does not stand still, he simply lies in wait. Go forth, Dovahkiin. May all favor go with you.”

* * *

 

Outside of the outpost, Mitchell regrouped with his two companions.

“All in agreement that the wizard is insane, say aye?” Farkas prompted, a little smile quirking at his lips.

“Aye.” Lydia agreed. “But our best lead so far. Talos never got anywhere without taking risks, we won’t either.”

“He’s more senile than insane.” Mitch mused. “But, I think he’s got something right. Instinct’s telling me that I should listen to the old guy. And Lydia’s right, it’s the best we’ve got.”

“I’ll agree there.” Farkas shrugged. “But Blackreach? A Dwemer ruin? We can’t go into that with just the three of us. We need to talk to Delphine about it first. She might have an idea about how we can get into Aftland without all getting killed by the damned traps.”

“Sounds like a plan then. To Delphine?”

“To Delphine. We can catch a carriage back in the hold.”

* * *

 

Bent over the stone table, Delphine listened carefully to Mitchell’s explanation. She winced at the mention of Dwemer ruin delving and rubbed at her jaw roughly. “All this trying to not get you killed, and now we’re sending you into a Dwemer ruin. Talos, it can’t just be the three of you. We’ll need to hire a party, and experienced team. I’ll… I’ll have to give it some thought.”

Mitchell leaned back in his chair. “If anyone can pull a team from their ass, it’s you. You’ve got this.”

Delphine threw him a wry smile. “Glad for the vote of confidence, Dragonborn, but it won’t be easy. Let me look into it with Esbern. For now, the three of you should rest up. You need to head to Solitude in the morning.”

“Solitude? Why?” Mitchell asked, cocking his head aside. “There are Thalmor around Haafingar, I thought we were going to avoid them?”

“We are.” Delphine replied. “But the Bard’s College have called in their favor, and they’ve requested you personally. I don’t know what for, but Viarmo wouldn’t use you for anything too difficult.”

Farkas shifted in his seat, sitting up a little straighter. “Could be fun.” He offered.

“A nice little break before we throw ourselves underground for Divines know how long.” Lydia shrugged. “Besides, we owe them. A true Nord pays his debts.”

Mitchell pushed his hair back. “Then we’ll go in the morning. Thanks Delphine, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Crash and burn most likely.” Delphine chuckled. “Rest well, Mitchell.”

“Good night.” Mitchell called back, giving her a pat on the back before sauntering off to bed.

When the room had cleared, Esbern stepped back from Alduin’s wall and turned back to Delphine. “You’re thinking who I’m thinking, correct?” He asked softly.

“I don’t see another choice. No other mercs would be quite as altruistic.” Delphine sighed, rubbing her temples. “And we can trust them more than we can trust hirelings.”

Esbern noded in agreement. “We can probably negotiate the price if we appeal a bit to their charitable side.”

Still rubbing her temples, Delphine gave a noncommittal grunt. “Whatever we have to pay will be worth it.”

“Fingers crossed.” Esbern murmured. “Shall I fetch a raven?”

“No.” Delphine said. “No, I should see them in person.”


	21. Shakespeare's Angels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mitchell rushes to save a festival, Delphine plays the diplomat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Canada Day everyone!!

“So you want me to save the festival?” Mitch clarified, holding his free glass of wine to his lips as he glanced back to Viarmo.

Mitchell loved the Bard’s college and their free wine. He loved the music ringing through the halls and the poetry recited by students and the general aesthetic of the place. He loved that Viarmo encouraged his students to use their skills and natural talents to engage with the outside world. He loved that there was a place for his own craft in Skyrim, that there were people like him who'd rather sing than fight. It almost reminded him of his own university.

… Except that Mitch was fairly sure the faculty at St Thomas University wouldn't ask him to go off to the middle of fuckwhere to retrieve a moldy journal that might not even be where they were guessing it was. Mitch rubbed his temples and felt rather like he now understood Tyrion Lannister’s persisting alcoholism a little better.

He protested, of course, and then ended up going anyway. Mitch supposed he couldn’t complain though, since at the end of a dusty ruin filled with ghosts, draugr, and what was probably some sort of shit, an ever-glorious word wall appeared. It had taken five hours to ride Dead Man’s Respite. With the shout he learned back on that word wall, that time had drastically decreased. That shout was a wonderful gift.

Well, that and the gold they’d managed to loot.

 

* * *

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Mitchell grumbled. “Fuckin’ called it.”

Viarmo held the ruined pages of the heretical poem, the last remaining original copy of King Olaf’s Verse, a legend of bardic literature, and he maybe wanted to cry a little. Mitchell didn’t even give a shit about Skyrim’s history or poems, and even he wanted to cry a little. The book they’d retrieved had put them squarely back at spot A, and about eight hours were flushed down the shitter.

“We could rewrite it?” Lydia suggested. “Svaknir‘s style can’t be impossible to mimic.”

Viarmo’s mouth was dry as he ran his hands over the pages again. “We could rewrite it... “

“Or…” Mitchell trailed off suddenly, scratching at his stubble.

“Or? You have a better idea?” Viarmo asked.

Mitch thought for a moment, nodding pensively. “Maybe. You said Torygg liked the festival? And that it’s to honor Solitude and to condemn Olaf? Then present it to her like that. Honor Solitude by burning the effigy of the man who betrayed her, and call it a symbol of hope in a dark time. To burn a traitor King in the honor of a noble King. I don't know shit about Torygg, I’ll admit that. But if you used it as a way to honor his memory and compare Stormcock McDouchefuck to King Olaf, then even Jarl Elisif might agree that the festival is still appropriate. We use the poem as a base sort of, and then we write our own version of the story. Y'know, history repeats itself! False Kings will die because they suck! Whoo to the Monarchy!”

Viarmo cocked an eyebrow as Mitchell half-assedly pumped his fist to the air. “You mean Ulfric Stormcloak.”

“I mean blondie with the sword and the big coat, yeah.” Mitchell shrugged. “Ain't my war, I don't really give a shit what his name is.”

Taking a sip of wine, Lydia coughed. “The Stormcloaks want to drive any non-Nord from Skyrim because apparently it belongs to us. Funny, I wonder if the snow elves thought the same.”

She received a nod of agreement to her snark from Viarmo. “How quickly history forgets. Ulfric hates anyone who isn't a Nord. If we go on with the festival, we can show off the diversity of Solitude against his hatred.”

“Exactly.” Mitch said. “Bury all of your own shady shit under the rug for a bit and start pointing out all of your enemies flaws. Politics 101. Elisif will have to agree.”

“It’s worth a shot.” Viarmo said, though he sounded tired. “We’ll have to prepare our argument, and we’ll have to support it well, and we’ll have to put together performances for her as examples, but it’s better than nothing. And of course as the dragonborn, you’ll be performing a number. Please refrain from using your, uh, audition song…”

Mitch laughed and shook his head. “Aces! Do I have free reign?”

“So long as there is no ‘ooga-chaka’ing in your performance, I shall trust your judgment. Prepare a song, and try not to kill our Jarl from a shock to the heart.” Viarmo sighed, almost fondly. “Feel free to practise wherever you like, so long as you don’t disturb the students.”

Offering a thumbs up, Mitchell nodded. “No promises. I’ll see what I can do.”

As he walked out with a wave, Mitchell pulled out his phone and held down the home button. “Hey, Siri, google ‘Macbeth Soliloquy’ for me please? Thanks babe.”

“Googling ‘macbeth soliloquy for me please thanks babe’ for you, Mitch.” The robotic voice replied.

“Goddammit Siri, you have one job.”

Farkas glanced to Lydia, blinking in confusion. “The box talks back now?”

 

* * *

The others had left for Solitude the previous morning, and now Delphine found herself riding southeast to Falkreath with the evening sun falling behind her. She had left Esbern at the temple and set out with her sword as her sole companion. It was safer that way, to meet alone and late. With luck, who she sought out would actually be where they were needed for once.

There was a snowball’s chance in Elsweyr of that happening. There was a snowball’s chance in Elsweyr of anything good happening. But with a dragonborn from another world barrelling in alongside the return of the World-Eater, it was likely that soon enough a snowball wouldn’t be able to survive anywhere. Anything that might ensure the world wouldn’t go out in a fiery blaze was something that needed to be tried.

Delphine gritted her teeth and tried to stave off the headache she could already feel beginning as she pushed her way into the Dead Man’s drink and sought out the far corner table.

 

* * *

Out in the pavilion, Mitchell laid out on his stomach, writing at furious pace over slips of parchment as he stuck his tongue out thoughtfully. His phone, still fully charged, played off a reading in the background. It had been about eight years since he’d last looked at Macbeth as a study and not as a performance, and he was beginning to regret diving into a world of metaphor and rewrites. But then again, if he could drunkenly plan an entire production of R and J where the entire cast was replaced by corgis, then he could do this.

As Mitchell’s quill flew across each page, Farkas carefully copied the lines of the previous onto a fresh sheet. Mitchell had bemoaned the lack of scanners and printers and computers for a good ten minutes straight before Lydia so helpfully volunteered Farkas to make the good copies of each draft page Mitchell wrote out. Lydia herself held the notes Mitchell had scratched out before he’d even begun.

“ Macbeth - final scene + tomorrow sol? Fight w/ MacDuff def. Parallel shit.

 

  * Macbeth, played by me. - Olaf/Stormfucker?
  * Macduff, played by ??? Girl. Elisif. “No man of woman born” pull an Eowyn,
  * Audience participation? Limit scripts to two or hand cramps
  * Make it awesome bitch”



 

Lydia didn’t understand the half of it, though she understood the gist Mitchell was trying to get at. It wasn’t a bad idea. Watching him fix and edit and perfect that idea though, that was painful. He’d chewed his lip red and his glasses were half falling off of his face. Messy curls went every which way as he once more pulled his hand through it to keep it out of his face. It had gotten longer since he’d first arrived, now the perfect length to run fingers through and-

“Lyd, pass me my phone again? I wanna look at the Patrick Stewart version one more time.” Mitchell called, breaking his housecarl’s train of thought.

Flushing at the sudden break, Lydia slid Mitchell’s phone over to him and sat back. They sat in silence for a few minutes as Mitchell reread his page. It was only after he was satisfied with his alterations that he spoke again.

“Mhm. How good’s your acting, Lyd?” Mitch asked, idly tucking his feather quill behind his ear before blowing at the ink on his page gently.

“I’m a housecarl, not a minstrel.” Lydia replied coolly. “I’ll play my part, but I won’t make an ass of myself for Solitude’s amusement.”

Mitch tossed her a grin. “Not an ass of yourself, an ass of MacUlfric; played by me. You get to be MacElisif. You’re good at wearing armor and wielding a sword, and that’s pretty much all you need to do.”

Lydia wouldn’t have even considered it had it not been for the puppy eyes he casted her way.

“As you wish.” Lydia replied. “For your game, whatever it is you’re playing.”

“I like to call it ‘a healthy dash of propaganda and historical thievery.’ If all’s well that ends well, then Viarmo is going to owe me his soul for this.” Mitch said cheerily, going back to his writing.

It took another twenty minutes before Mitchell stood and stretched and announced his progress. “Right, so I think this is the last page. Lyd, you good to try and run through this with me?”

 

* * *

At that corner table, Delphine waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And for a little while more, she waited.

The sun had long since set and her tea had long since cooled. Delphine sat with her head bowed towards the crumpled letter held tightly in her hands. She’d memorized the words a thousand times over, knew the handwriting by heart. She’d never thought she’d come to use the slip that had been tucked carefully into her travel bags to be found later. And yet here she was.

Waiting.

The door swung open and the wind drifted in. Delphine didn’t bother to look up. Her hope dwindled as the footsteps turned towards the bar, and her desperate grasp got a little bit tighter.

“You’re going to wear down your teeth if you keep grinding them like that, luv.” Came a soft voice from in front of her that almost made her jump.

Delphine glanced up and swallowed. “Lady Stark, how kind of you to join me. Why don’t you take a seat?”

 

* * *

It was close to the start of the evening when Viarmo checked in on the college’s latest “addition.” Mitchell stood opposite his housecarl, holding a sword aloft and reciting lines from memory while his hired companion mouthed the following words to his housecarl from sheets of parchment.

“This is what you've planned?” Viarmo asked, announcing his presence to them as he spoke.

Mitchell glanced at him from over Lydia's shoulder, a fire growing in his eyes. “Pretty much, yeah!” He called back.

Viarmo furrowed his brow as he took the script from Farkas, flipping through it. “It's clever, I'll give you that. I never knew you were such a gifted poet.” He remarked.

“Oh, fuck no. I'm no poet, I'm just really good at ripping off Shakespeare.” Mitchell said with a shrug. “Not that Elisif’s gonna need to know that. But from artist to artist, all I do is look pretty and sing.”

Snorting, Viarmo passed back the script. “The greatest masterpieces steal from older masterpieces; such is the way of the bard. No one sings a song the same as the last singer.”

Mitchell finger gunned and winked. “Right-o.”

Scratching at his chin for a moment, Viarmo seemed to consider something. “You know, it's not that half bad of an idea. I think that if you give Elisif enough of a hint of what’s to come, she’ll have to agree to keep the festival on, even if purely out of curiosity as to how the scene ends.”

“That’s the idea.” Mitch replied. “Now, should we see what everyone else is doing before we go try and cocktease a Queen?”

 

* * *

Atla Stark took her seat across from Delphine, pulling down her own hood and offering up a smile. “I'm sorry for making you wait, Del. Guild business and all that.”

“You're forgiven.” Delphine replied gruffly. “How's your leg?”

“Healing. It only hurts in the morning.” Atla shrugged. “You didn't hear me coming.”

“No. New boots?”

“Son’s project.” Atla said with a proud beam. “He's been perfecting his enchantments.”

Delphine smiled a bit and shook her head, feeling the low thrum of energy from her own blade. She knew the skill behind the likes of Atla’s boots. “And has he been perfecting his dwemer delves as well?” She asked softly.

Atla leaned back in her chair. “Possibly. Why?”

Delphine slid her paper across the table. Atla picked it up and examined it carefully, scrutinizing it under a silver gaze. “Hmm.”

“His words, not mine.” Delphine said.

“No one else’s handwriting could be so shitty as his.” Atla clucked. “His words, his promise. I'll let him know you asked after him. But can I know why?”

“I assume you've heard of the recent arrival of a saviour?” Delphine raised a brow slightly. “And of the world-eater’s return?”

Atla blinked. “Helgen burned. Half of Skyrim knows that. And if you mean who I think, then I owe him a visit. And if you do mean who I think, then he's not very subtle.”

“The people don't need subtle. They need a Dragonborn. And our Dragonborn needs an expert.” Delphine replied firmly. “I'll mark the temple’s location on your map.”

“I'll pass the word on. My son can discuss the payment.” Atla promised as Delphine circled the area on the map.

And then like that Atla Stark was gone again, striding out into the night and merging into the shadows that the thief called home. Delphine rubbed her eyes and rented a room for the night.

 

* * *

Standing in the foyer with Viarmo in borrowed fine clothes was more nerve-wracking than Mitchell had expected. It was like all of the built up anxiety that he’d been storing up since… a time… had decided then to overflow him. He’d long ago gotten over his stage fright, that much was true. But while standing in the foyer, bouncing on the balls of his feet, feeling every nerve in him spark, and feeling the tiniest bit of nausea creeping over him, Mitch couldn’t help himself. He was jittery.

“You can sit down, if you need to.” Viarmo reminded him carefully as they heard Pantea’s singing and Inge’s lute playing drift out from above them.

“I’ve got the fate of your festival hinging on this, I really can’t.” Mitchell replied.

“You’ve got the fate of all of Nirn resting on your shoulders. This nothing compared to that.” Viarmo tried to say helpfully.

Mitchell gave him a flat look. “Thanks, man. That reminder really helps completely. I needed that. Very supportive.” He deadpanned.

They both looked up when the music finally came to a stop, and Mitchell sucked in his gut a bit. Pantea offered him a pleasant smile as he pushed back his bangs nervously and gave himself one last once over before setting for the stairs. Viarmo gave him an encouraging pat on the back. With one last exhale, Mitchell climbed up to face Jarl Elisif’s court.

Elisif sat back against her throne, upright and with her hands folded neatly in her lap. Mitchell gave an awkward bow as he took his place in front of her. His throat felt a bit dry as he spoke. “My Jarl.” He greeted, his tongue flicking briefly against his lip. “My name is Mitchell Xavier. I’m, uh, with the Bard’s College, here to perform for the festival’s case.”

He gave a respectful nod to Elisif as she smiled at him and nodded back. “You were at Elenwen’s party a while ago. I had meant to speak with you, but you disappeared so suddenly. And you weren’t wearing your...” She trailed off, gesturing to her face.

Mitchell clued in quickly. “Glasses. And, uh, yeah. I got sick part way through, must’ve been the wine. I’m sorry I never got the chance to speak with you, Jarl Elisif.”

“We have the chance now.” Elisif laughed musically, and Mitch couldn’t help his smile.

“I suppose we do.”

There was a burning sensation on the side of his head, just above his ear. In his peripheral vision he could see Elisif’s steward glaring daggers into his skull. Well then, that was a great start. Best get to the act before his head lit up from the force of the man’s pissed glaring.

“So, uh, my piece! This is actually a poem from where I’m from that was turned to a song, and it’s kind of long, but it’s good.”

Shit, he was babbling again. Enough of that shit, get to the song.

Mitch coughed a little and cleared his throat, stepping back and easing into his song. He started soft and slowly let his volume rise. He projected from his gut, briefly mourning the lack of a mic or backing music. Still, his voice alone seemed to work charmingly enough. Elisif beamed at him as he sang.

__The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees_ _

_The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon the cloudy seas_

_The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor_

_And the highwayman came riding,_

_Riding, riding,_

_The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door._

His voice seemed a bit rougher than it had been before. Not necessarily in a bad way, but it was different. Something to do with the shouting? He’d ask Esbern about it later. For now he sang his heart out, trying to put on his best puppy eyes as he sang to Elisif specifically.

__Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky_ _

_With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!_

_Blood-red were the spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,_

_When they shot him down on the highway,_

_Down like a dog on the highway,_

_And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat._

_Still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,_

_When the moon is a ghostly galleon, tossed upon the cloudy seas,_

_When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,_

_A highwayman comes riding,_

_Riding, riding,_

_A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door._

Elisif was the first to start clapping when Mitchell gave his little bow at the end, and the last to stop as well. She giggled at his grin and held her hands clasped in front of her. “A beautiful number, Mitchell.”

“Thanks.” Mitchell grinned back. “And if you would allow it, might I add why I think you should spare the festival?”

He waited for permission, and was granted it with a slow nod. Mitchell carefully folded his hands behind his back and straightened up, clearing his throat up a bit. “Well, I personally have next to no connection to this festival, so I can’t ask for you to restore it for that. I do, however, have a short play I was told would suit the celebration. I would love to perform it here, if the festival was to go on. I’d like to debut it for you, and your court.”

There was a healthy pause between ‘you’ and ‘and your court,’ and one Elisif noticed at that. Her steward probably noticed too, judging by the way Mitchell felt his hair starting to practically sizzle. Fuck him though, it was Elisif he had to charm. By the looks of it, his charm was working. Elisif had smiled brightly at him as she tipped her head back and considered it.

“And what would this play be, pray tell?” Elisif asked.

“A reworking of a classic, with inspiration from King Olaf’s Verses.” Mitchell said smoothly. “It’s the tale of a traitor king who rises against his people, only to have his reign toppled by those who know there’s still something right in the world worth fighting for.”

Elisif lit up at that. “Oh? Can you tell me more?”

“I would hate to ruin the magic of seeing it performed for the first time, my Jarl.” Mitchell said in as much of an apologetic tone as he could muster. “You’ll just have to wait for the festival to know…”

Laughing good-naturedly, Elisif shook her head. “I guess I shall. Thank you, Mitchell. I’ll take your words into my consideration.”

Mitchell gave another bow before he trotted off. When he was down the stairs and out of earshot, he high-fived Viarmo. “I think I sweetened the deal. Break a leg, man.”

Twenty minutes later and Viarmo had returned from his own performance, a look victory painting his features. He high-fived Mitchell again, still new to the concept of a high-five but very much excited to make use of it. It gave Mitchell most of the answer he needed. Still, he asked anyways.

“So, is the festival on?”

Viarmo nodded vigorously. “We have four hours to prepare. Run back to the college and find Jorn, he’s usually in the library. The festival is back on!”

Mitchell hadn’t seen a high elf look much higher than Viarmo did right then.

* * *

In those four hours, the collective population of the Bard’s College had managed to toss together one of the most vibrant of festivals Mitchell had ever attended. Paper lanterns in various colors had been strung up on wires all throughout the city, illuminating the streets in a soft multicolor glow. A straw man in a wooden crown rested upon a stake in the pavilion, with firewood piled ever so carefully around it. Feast tables and vendor stalls were set up everywhere. Every inch of space on the tables was filled with different foods, and the smells blended in the air in a wild mixture of everything.

Mitch was reminded then by a loudly growling stomach that he hadn’t eaten supper. He slipped a snowberry tart from one of the tables and quickly chowed down on it as he sought out Lydia and Farkas. He found them back in the library, with Lydia slipping into her costume armor and Farkas running her lines with her one last time. Mitch swallowed the last of his tart and joined them.

“We ready?” He asked playfully as he stepped in and fumbled at the ties of his fine clothes.

“As I’ll ever be.” Lydia relied with a sigh. “You sure about this?”

“I’ve got complete and utter faith in you, Lydia.” Mitchell said reassuringly, while clapping her on an armored shoulder. “You’re the best of shieldmaidens and the best of housecarls.”

“You’re a flatterer.” Lydia countered, but she let a smile slip through all the same.

Mitchell pulled back to yank off his doublet and toss it to the floor. He stood with his back to his two companions as he figured out how to slip on his own borrowed costume. It was only when Farkas laid a gentle hand on his hip and showed him how to properly fix up his straps and such that Mitchell finally got it. And by got it, we of course mean “Farkas figured it out while Mitchell went through the lines in his head again and occasionally tied what he was told to.”

“Should be good to go.” Farkas said gruffly as he finally pulled back to admire his handiwork.

“Thanks, Farkas.” Mitchell replied, pulling him into as much of a one-armed hug as he could manage.

Farkas puffed up his chest a little at that, and softly patted Mitchell on the shoulder as well.

He pulled away when Viarmo walked in, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Showtime, my friend. Break a leg!”

Walking out from the library and to the pavilion felt like Mitchell’s very first opening number, all over again.

 

* * *

He stood alone, center stage, head bowed, the fake crown upon his head glinting in the torchlight. Mitchell felt the low hum of the audience quieting under Viarmo’s urging. He stood stock still as Viarmo’s voice filled the night, announcing the renewal of the Burning of King Olaf, celebrating the persistence of the students of the Bard’s College in having it reinstated. In addition he praised Elisif, who took a seat of honor up on a raised platform. It was like waiting behind the curtains for the lights to go up once more, and it gave Mitchell the same rush he always got right before a show.

This right here, this was his element.

Viarmo stepped aside, announcing the production with a booming tone. “Presented to you by the Bard’s College; _the King’s Folly!_ A tale of a man who turned against his people, who let go of everything he ever held dear, only to be confronted at the end of the line by a warrior proud and strong, a hero for the people of Solitude!”

Showtime.

 

* * *

The scene played out as such:

Mitchell raised his head and threw his gaze to the sky, his right arm crossed over his chest and holding his sword to unsheath. To the silent night he posed the question, “Why must I play the Imperial fool, and die on mine own sword?”

The clatter of boots sounded out in answer as Lydia entered stage right, fully clad in armor, with a helmet concealing her face. She raised her sword towards Mitchell, and called out to him, “Turn, monster! Turn, traitor!”

He turned to face her, hand still firmly grasping his blade. “Get thee back; my soul is too much charged with the blood of thine already.” He growled.

“I have no words!” Lydia cried back, and in the background Mitchell heard the low pounding of Jorn on the drum beginning. “My voice is in my sword, bloody villain!”

She surged forward, and Mitchell drew his sword with one quick move, blocking her sudden swing and then side-stepping. They circled around each other, sizing their opponent up. Mitchell inhaled deeply before he lunged, slashing at Lydia with the sword and missing narrowly enough to look like he’d hit her. Lydia pushed back with a frenzied slash, scraping his armor with the tip of her fake blade. Mitchell stumbled back and raised his sword to block her next hit. He bounced back in with a yell and ended up smacking his blade against Lydia’s roughly. Lydia used her position to force his blade down and step closer, staring him in the eye through her helmet slats.

Mitchell exhaled slowly, drawing out the moment as he glared back. His next line was slow, deliberate. “You waste your breath.With keen sword, try and make me bleed, let the blade fall on vulnerable crests! I am charmed in this life! No man of woman born may strike me down!”

He could almost feel the smirk radiating off of Lydia as she drew back her helmet and tossed it aside, swinging her head back and letting her hair fall to her shoulders. “I AM NO MAN!” She roared back, and knocked away at his blade so he staggered backwards.

“Cursed be she who brings this news to me.” Mitchell spat, holding his sword out. “You cow my better man! I will not fight you!”

“Then yield, coward! And decorate the walls of the city you failed, the city you betrayed!” Lydia snapped back, advancing with her sword.

“What do I care for this city? I’ll not yield to kiss the ground beneath this woman’s feet! Lay on, and watch me prove fate wrong!”

And much as his predecessor, Mitchell’s character very much did not. He stood, and he fought, and for a good amount of time they drew out the scene, Lydia and Mitchell going at each other with all of their hearts thrown into it. But inevitably Lydia drew up her final attack, and sent Mitchell toppling to the ground. He bumped his leg a little hard but was otherwise fine. Quickly going limp, Mitchell played dead as his wooden crown rolled across the pavilion, only for Lydia to stop it with her foot. She lifted the crown as if it actually weighed more than a lump of wood did, and held it aloft to the sky.

The audience’s cheer was explosive. Lydia placed the crown on her own head and kneeled, holding her sword beside her and bowing her head as the people clapped. When Viarmo waltzed out she finally rose to her feet, holding out her hand to help Mitchell stand up again. They joined hands and bowed together, waving to their audience and stepping aside as Viarmo made his concluding remarks.

“Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. This has been The King’s Folly, written and directed by our very own stars!” Viarmo proudly announced. “Our own stars, who have honored us today through ensuring this festival could continue. To them we owe our thanks!”

Another round of cheering, this time louder and stronger. Mitchell felt his heart swell a little as he listened, and felt it swell a little more as he looked to spot Farkas leaning up against one of the pillars, watching both he and Lydia with pride. Mitch smiled at him and turned back in time to watch Viarmo set the effigy alight. I caught immediately, burning bright in the night and sending smoke billowing into the sky. Mitchell clapped with the rest of the crowd, and that was when the party truly began.

 

* * *

Mitch had stripped out of his costume and switched back to the old familiar jeans and worn down hoodie. He hardly paid attention to some of the looks it earned him, instead choosing to walk forth and try to track down Farkas and Lydia. He wanted nothing more than to get smashed with them and have a real party now. He almost made it, too, having spotted them lingering near the spiced wine stall. A voice stopped him in his tracks. Jarl Elisif called out to him from where she stood by the pillar closest to the door. It was her and her alone, though Mitchell thought he spotted a flash of movement signalling she had at least one guard near. Mitchell approached her when she gestured for him to.

“Ditching your guard at a time like this? Can’t be wise for a queen.” Mitch commented, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the other pillar.

“It’s not a crime for them to enjoy the party, good Ser.” Elisif laughed, straightening up. “You did well. There’s such power in how you command your stage.”

Mitchell snorted. “We can’t all be kings. Sometimes we just have to play royalty and hope for the best.”

Elisif nudged him in the shoulder. “I mean it. I did enjoy your performance greatly.”

“Then I thank you.” Mitchell replied, quirking his lips.

“You’re an inspiring performer. I almost felt sympathy.” Elisif said sincerely, and Mitch held back a chuckle.

“Did you now? Then I guess my job was well done.” Mitch said, cocking his head aside. “Lydia was a saint, working with me on short notice.”

“She was excellent as well.” Elisif agreed. “Though I must confess it was you I couldn’t take my eyes off of.”

Wait, oh my god. She was hitting on him. Holy fuck, she was a queen, and she was hitting on him. If Mitchell’s confidence had been boosted by the crowd’s approval, then it fucking skyrocketed the moment he clued into that one.

“I could say the same for you, my Jarl.” Mitchell replied, in his best smooth voice.

“You must get that a lot.” Elisif said softly. “Admirers.”

Mitchell shrugged easily. “On occasion. Do I count you as one?”

Elisif giggled. “Mayhaps. Would you like to return to the palace with me, as a guest? It’s getting awfully stuffy out here, and it’ll only get worse the longer the effigy burns.”

Mitchell felt a small knot form in the pit of his stomach. He held his tongue for a moment, glancing back to where Farkas and Lydia had been standing previously and finding them gone. He ignored the little stab he felt in his gut at that, and turned his gaze back to Elisif. “I’d be honored, Jarl Elisif.”

The palace was in fact cooler, though it would not be for long. Mitchell followed Elisif into the foyer and up the stairs, acutely aware of the way the guards still on duty looked at him. He elected to ignore that, and instead let Elisif take his hand in hers midway through their wine glasses and let her lead him to her bedchamber.

 

* * *

“Farkas, look!” Lydia hissed, setting down her spiced wine against the stall and directing Farkas’ attention ahead of them.

Her Thane leaned against the pillar, talking with none other than Jarl Elisif herself. He seemed happy enough. Mitchell chuckled with her and brightened the dark night with the smile he gave her. Lydia felt an oddness stirring in her as she watched them. She had the sneaking suspicion Farkas was feeling something similar, from the way he stiffened beside her. He let out a snarl almost, Lydia could swear it.

“We should go.” Farkas growled quietly, pulling Lydia along with him so they disappeared into the crowd.

They could still catch a glimpse of Mitchell, thought it would be impossible for him to see them. Lydia furrowed her brow and took another look at the sour expression on Farkas’s face. “Let's get a bit closer, so we can hear them.”

“I can hear them.” Farkas snapped in reply.

Lydia took a few steps away from him, wary of the way the companion was holding himself. “Farkas, breathe. He’ll be safe, we’re watching him.”

“It’s not that.” Farkas hissed. “Look.”

Doing as he commanded, Lydia glanced back to where Mitchell stood with Elisif, only to see them standing a lot closer than before. Mitchell was holding out his arm, and Elisif linked her in his easily and stepped forward with him, chattering on about something or other as they walked in the direction of the palace. One of Elisif’s guard’s was close enough to watch them both, so she didn’t see why Farkas was acting so tense.

She said as much, and was met with the companion stalking forward huffily. “Hey, Farkas, wait! Where are you going? They’ll be fine!” Lydia grabbed his arm, holding him back.

“They were flirting worse than Ria and Vilkas.” Farkas growled back to her.

“So?” Lydia asked, clueing in. “It’s a bit of fun. He’s the dragonborn, Farkas.”

“He’s _our_ dragonborn though.” Farkas insisted.

“He’s a grown man, he can handle himself.” Lydia argued. “Or are you jealous of the Jarl?”

Farkas huffed, a blush lighting up his face. “He’s been flirting with us though.”

Lydia gave him a cool look. “He’s been flirting with every single person we’ve met so far, Farkas. This isn’t a new thing.”

Huffing again, Farkas slumped. He ambled back into the college defeatedly, with Lydia close behind him. He plopped himself into the nearest library chair when he reached the room and exhaled, crossing his arms over his chest. He didn’t respond when Lydia took the seat beside him.

“Is it wrong?” He asked, finally, after a long moment of silence.

“Is what wrong?” Lydia asked back.

“Is it wrong to be jealous of the Jarl?”

“I don’t know. Are you jealous?”

“Are _you_ jealous?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Maybe a lot.” Farkas admitted, as he eyed the housecarl carefully. “I don’t think this is supposed to happen.”

“He’s a hero out of the legends, anyone would fall for him. Even big scary companions and tough warrior housecarls.” Lydia shrugged.

“He’s a milk-drinking puppy with no idea what he’s doing.” Farkas grunted. “But he's a part of the family now.”

Lydia agree with a snort. “He is.”

“And he needs us.” Farkas continued.

“He certainly does, big guy. He certainly does.”

“And Lydia, you're family too.”

He felt a calloused hand on his, and he let Lydia squeeze his hand reassuringly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's enough interest for it, I might post a side story with Mitchell gettin' it on with the queen lol


	22. the Bisexual Battle Brigade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mitchell apologizes, Brynden recruits, and Skjor has had enough of this shit. Farkas makes a move.

It was nine in the morning by Mitchell’s phone time, though without an accurate way of tracking time in Skyrim, he figured it could be anywhere from sunrise to just before noon. Stumbling from the bed, he pushed his hands through his hair and shivered at the rush of cold against naked skin. Upon looking back he found Elisif still half asleep, curled up in the morning sunlight with her hair fanned out around her. When Mitchell leaned in to kiss her on the forehead, she blinked awake, wiping the sleep from her eyes before resting her hand over the back of his neck and pulling him back down for a proper kiss.

“Good morning.” She greeted softly once he’d pulled away.

“Mornin’.” He replied smoothly. “Sleep well?”

Elisif hummed, tapping her fingertips on the mattress. “Well enough.” She replied. “Come back to bed, it's still early yet.”

Biting his lip, Mitchell hesitated. “I should get going. My friends’ll be expecting me, and I should probably go find them and apologize for blowing them off.”

He laughed slightly and kissed Elisif’s frown away. “I'm sorry I can't stay longer.”

Stroking her fingers through the ridiculously messy mop of curls on Mitchell’s head, Elisif sighed. “The kitchen staff will make you breakfast if you ask,

tell them it's on my request. At least eat before you go charging off to slay more dragons.”

She let out an amused huff as he kissed her knuckles and promised her to find something. Elisif let him go without further argument, rolling over and letting herself slip back into sleep for a few more hours.

Mitch turned back to track down his clothes, gathering up the haphazardly tossed items from around the room. He'd found almost everything, though there was still one pesky sock he was missing. Only when he turned by the mirror did he finally find it, hanging off of one of the shelves. He snatched it up quickly, and in his haste turned his head enough so to catch a glimpse of his reflection. It was enough to freeze him in place for a moment.

He’d been lanky when he’d first landed in Skyrim, no doubt about it. He’d looked stretched out and gangly, as if Lee Pace had made sweet love to a twiggy alien and the resulting child grew up with yaoi hands and a vague talent for reaching things on high shelves. And while he could still easily see the top of the refrigerator, the lankiness in Mitchell’s frame had started to fill out with firm muscle. He was beginning to see the definition of abs on his previously squishy stomach. It appeared as though his training and fighting was helping him fill out in ways hockey never had.

Mitchell would’ve whistled at himself if wouldn’t have woken up Elisif again.

* * *

 

Full of breakfast and self-confidence, Mitchell jogged off casually to the Bard’s College. He caught Lydia and Farkas right outside the doors, just as they were leaving. Lydia seemed mildly amused at best, while Farkas had a pinkish stain colouring his cheeks. Mitchell threw up a pair of awkward finger guns and offered a cheeky grin. “Mornin’, _mon amis_.”

Lydia acknowledged him with a shake of her head and a laugh, while Farkas made only a grunt and turned away. Mitchell frowned at that, feeling a twinge of guilt in the pit of his stomach. He swallowed and shook his head to clear it. “Right. Well. Carriage to Rorikstead and a leisurely walk to Skyhaven?”

“Carriage to Whiterun.” Farkas replied gruffly. “This came in with a messenger from Delphine.”

He practically shoved the note into Mitchell’s hands. The twinge of guilty spiked, and Mitchell tried to stomp it down as he unfurled the note and read it.

__“Mitchell-_ _

_Found your way in. Have an acquaintance making preparations. He’ll meet you in Whiterun in a week's time. Needs time to gather his people._

_Try not to get yourself killed in the meantime._

_D.”_

Mitch grinned as he shoved the letter in his pocket beside his phone. “Awesome, week to kill. What’re we doin’? It'd be a good chance to learn more about the nightlife in Skyrim; visit a few taverns, meet some people…”

He trailed off as Farkas snorted. “If you've started repaying your favors, then you can afford time to help the Companions. We’re taking a few jobs before we go off.”

Mitch shrugged and pushed his hair back. “Might as well. I should tell Ria about all this, catch up around Jorrvaskr before we get back to hunting.”

He missed the look Farkas shot at him as he slipped his hands into his pockets and let out a whistle. “Right, let's get going.”

* * *

 

The ride to Whiterun was an awkward and mostly silent mess for the first half hour. That was before Mitchell’s guilt and boredom got the better of him. There was an anxious knot in the pit of his stomach, a ticking in his ear that had him twitching and picking at his fingernails. He tried to start a conversation a few times, only to have his attempts either die on the tip of his tongue. It was only after the fifth time he'd opened and closed his mouth that he finally managed to push words out.

“I'm sorry for ditching you guys last night.” He said, a little too fast. “I know you must've worried and I know it was a dick move, and bros before hoes and all that jazz. It probably doesn't help, but I saw you guys having fun and like… Didn't really wanna bug you, eh?”

Mitch offered an apologetic half-grin as Lydia chuckled. “I'm more jealous it was you that caught the queen’s eyes when I was the star in your play.” She admitted. “Thought I suppose you have a certain charm about you, can't really blame her. Still.”

Whistling, Mitch toyed with the strings on his hoodie. “Between me and you we should start the Bisexual Battle Brigade, run around seducing queens and slaying dragons.”

Lydia cackled at that. “We could invite Aela and Njada. Make it official and everything.”

“We’ll need a theme song. Bye Bye Bye by Nsync?” Mitchell mused. “I’ll play it for you at Jorrvaskr.”

“Is this Brigade open, or do I need an invitation?” Farkas asked, cocking an eyebrow.

His earlier jealousy seemed to have melted away from Mitchell and Lydia’s joking. Farkas relaxed into the conversation and allowed Mitch to fist bump his shoulder lightly. “You’re always a part of my brigade, bud.”

Farkas smiled at that, and let his jealousy go. Perhaps Mitchell would bed a queen. Perhaps Mitchell would bed a thousand queens. But Mitchell kept coming back to him, and smiling at him, and sharing jokes with him, and that made him feel something special.

* * *

 

“You’re fucking joking.”

Atla Stark leaned back in her seat, poking idly at her eggs with a fork and tossing her son a smirk. “Consider it a great opportunity, luv. He’s the dragonborn, he needs help. You’re an adventurer, you like dwemer history and dwemer ruins.”

Brynden snorted and shook his head. “I’m not saying no. I never said no. It’s a hearty yes from me. It’s just, Delphine doesn’t exactly like me, or you for that matter. Why ask us?”

With a shrug Atla replied, “Fuck if I know, but I suspect it has something to do with it being a bit of a charity case. Mercs charge a lot. They aren’t paying us for this.”

“Whatever’s in that ruin is payment enough.”

“Good, because I already told Delphine you’d do it.” Atla flashed him a grin. “You’ve got a week to gather your team, so I’d suggest you go wake up Erik.”

* * *

 

Brynden hit up Riften first, with Erik trailing dutifully behind him as he weaved his way through the marketplace and to where Brynjolf was undoubtedly pawning off some piss as an elixir. He wasn’t hard to spot in the crowd, with his bright red hair and worn noble clothing. As Brynden approached him, he gave a friendly wave.

“Your get up is going threadbare, ‘jolf.” Brynden greeted. “Care to make some coin and have it fixed up?”

Giving him a glare, Brynjolf set down his bottle and brushed the dust on his doublet away. “That depends. Are you here to mock me, or do you have a legitimate cause? I’m not your charity case, Stark.”

“No.” Brynden chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re not. But we’ve got a lad who needs some good old generosity sent his way. Why don’t we talk somewhere more comfortable?”

Brynjolf cocked an eyebrow but nodded anyways. “Aye. I’ll meet you in the Flagon.”

* * *

 

Erik sat uneasily besides Brynden as they waited for Brynjolf. He was fidgeting, twitching hard and kept in his seat only by Brynden’s hand on his thigh under the table. Brynden was perfectly at peace, though Erik could never grasp why. Even though relaxed slightly under Brynden’s careful touch, his hand never strayed far from the dagger strapped to his leg. _Just sit and wait for Brynjolf. There’s an adventure at the end of this._

When Brynjolf finally arrived, he grabbed a chair at their table and swung it around so he could rest his arms on the back of it. He signalled Vekel for drinks before turning to Brynden. “Alright, then. What’s this job?”

“You talk to Delphine recently?” Brynden asked cryptically.

Erik didn’t grasp the meaning, but Brynjolf’s brows shot up to his hairline. He ignored the arrival of drinks to make a puzzled expression. It was as though he was trying to figure out the entire story with only a single clue to guide the way. Brynden caught on as he took a long drag of his whiskey and laughed a little when he put it down.

“Don’t rush ahead of me luv, Delphine’s fine. But her friend is in need of some help, and she wants me on the case. I need my best backing me up.” Brynden explained.

“And if her friend was Esbern, you would’ve mentioned him already.” Brynjolf murmured, poking at the foam in his beer. “She was with that girl when she last came, the Lydia woman. They mentioned a certain absent party…”

“A certain absent party whose success could make the world, and whose failure could break it.” Brynden replied. “Plus, it’s a dwemer ruin we’re delving into. Good loot.”

Brynjolf made a face but nodded. “Aye, ruins always have something. I… Hang on. You there! Run and get Etienne and Delvin.” He barked at a scrappy looking thief who dashed off immediately.

“I think this should wait a moment.” Brynjolf said softly. “In the meantime, Hullo Erik. Lovely to see you again.”

“No.” Erik said flatly, and Brynden gave a sigh and a shake of his head.

“Be civil, Goldie.” Bryn reprimanded.

Erik held back on the urge to roll his eyes and bit his tongue. “I’m sorry, Brynjolf, but no. I’m not a thief, or a bouncer, and I’m not making the mistake of peddling your elixir for you again.”

Brynjolf and Brynden snorted in unison, earning each of them a glare. When Brynden offered him an apologetic peck on the cheek, Erik let it go.

“What is it with you and making the Flagon a romantic date place?” Delvin asked with a smirk as he finally arrived, taking the seat next to Brynjolf. “Have I been summoned for a ritualistic orgy? Should I have brought some daedric boots and a trout?”

While Brynden laughed, Etienne slipped in on Brynjolf’s other side and took the last seat. “I’m not going to ask.” He said flatly, and Erik gave him a look of half-amused long-suffering silence.

Brynjolf cleared his throat and looked between his two thieves, chewing his lip. “Right then, lads. Stark has a job for us. You two interested?”

“I’d be a little more excited if I knew what this job was.” Delvin said dryly. “Though granted, little in life is more exciting than an orgy with our dear Lord Stark.”

Brynden flashed him a grin and blew a kiss, and Erik flushed a little but snorted all the same. “No, lads, sadly not. Next time, maybe. Will a dwemer ruin suffice as a replacement?”

Delvin perked up at that. Etienne bit his lip but heard him out, a twinge of something unrecognizable in his stomach. Brynden’s smile was reassuring, even if Etienne felt an uneasiness looming over him.

“We’re going to help the dragonborn out, lads. Interested now?” Brynden smirked.

Etienne felt his anxiousness spike. _Oh._ Brynjolf was giving him a sideways glance, and Erik hit him with a sudden look of concern. _Shit._

“It’d be a good way to pay back your debt you think you owe him.” Brynjolf said softly.

Shaking his head to clear it did little to help Etienne. He nodded despite himself. “It would. Just. He’s practically a green boy. Yes, he saved my life… but bringing a green boy into a dwemer ruin? You know the contraptions better than any of us, Brynden. The ruins could kill him in an instant. The thalmor are nothing compared to a centurion. He can’t charm a device like that.”

Brynden leaned on his hands. “No, and that’s why we’re going in as his protection. But if you’ve a problem with him then you don’t have to acc-”

“It’s not that.” Etienne interrupted. “It’s only… Mitchell has this look about him. The moment you see him, he’s… odd. I watched him give me potions and fuss over me like a mother hen one moment, and then split open a Thalmor’s skull like it was an egg in another. But… He’s not a fighter. Anyone who looks at him could tell you that. He laughs like a madman and grieves like a young widow and he’s… He’s charming. You know him for a day and you worry about him for a month. And the thought of that poor kid in a dwemer ruin?”

“You’re scared for him.” Brynden observed softly. “That’s why we’re going with him. He saved you, why not help keep him safe?”

Etienne exhaled and nodded. “I’m in. Delvin?”

“If the boy’s charming enough to have you fretting over him for a month and generous enough to throw some coin your way, then he’s a boy I’d like to meet. Sign me up.” Delvin grinned. “It’ll be just like old times for me and Bryn squared.”

Brynden mirrored his grin. “Right then, lads. We need to be in Whiterun in a few days. We should get you three geared up properly.”

* * *

 

Skjor was on the dragonborn party the moment they walked in the door. Ria trailed somewhat behind him, greeting Mitchell with a happy wave and a bright smile as Skjor glared him down. Mitchell vaguely wondered when he’d pissed in Skjor’s cornflakes, but training with Vilkas had taught him to know better than to vocalize that wondering. Companions, apparently, were touchy and prideful. Well, most. Ria and Farkas were cool in his books.

“It’s about time you’ve returned, whelp.” Skjor greeted. “We’ve got word in that another piece of Wuuthrad popped up. You want to be a real Companion? Here’s your chance.”

Mitchell nodded. “Cool. What’s a wuuthrad?”

Skjor made an expression that made him look as if he was a fifty year old dad with two rebellious teenage emo kids, working at a shittily managed burger chain in the middle of a hot summer day, standing at the front and getting yelled at by a coupon hoarding soccer mom of five, wearing gucci reading glasses and a ‘can I speak the the manager?’ haircut. He grunted heavily and turned to Farkas.

“You’re his shield brother on this one. Take him to Dustman’s Cairn and explain on the way.” Skjor instructed. “Good luck.”

Before he left, he threw a glance back to Lydia. “Oh, and you? Lydia? Aela’s asked after you, I’d suggest giving her a visit.”

They’d parted there, with Lydia slipping off to seek out Aela, and Mitch and Farkas trekking out to Dustman’s Cairn as Farkas gave a brief explanation of Wuuthrad.

* * *

 

“Ugh, fuck this place. I can’t decide if the spiders or the draugr are worse.” Mitchell groaned, pulling his spear out of the gut of a draugr corpse.

Farkas shivered. “I’m beginning to see why you hate spiders so much. We still need to keep looking though. There’s a gate in our way for now.”

Mitchell rolled his shoulders and looked around. “I’ll poke around the side rooms for a lever or something.”

They separated, with Mitchell drifting off into an alcove in search of a switch. He glanced around, picking up a dusty book from the floor and tucking it under his arm as he pulled up his phone and flicked on the flashlight. It only took a little bit of hunting before he stumbled upon the lever. He only pulled it after pushing away cobwebs with the tip of his spear and killing a few smaller spiders. Hesitantly he grasped the handle and yanked it down, promptly breaking it off and fucking himself over.

The gate before Farkas had risen up, while another one had crashed down and trapped Mitchell in the alcove. His blood pressure spiked and he let out a screech. “Fuck me running!”

Farkas appeared before the bars, peering in at Mitchell with his head cocked aside. “You trap yourself, whelp?” He asked in mild amusement.

“Get fucked and get me out.” Mitchell growled. “It isn’t funny.”

“Hey, be nice.” Farkas chided. “There’s probably a release nearby, I’ll go take a look. Wait here.”

“Ah yes, I would otherwise be going somewhere else if you didn’t say that.” Mitchell snapped.

“Down, boy. I’ll be right back.”

Huffing, Mitchell leaned against the bars and glared out. He zoned out as Farkas slipped off, only to snap to at the sudden sound of boots clanking a few minutes later. He watched in shock as group of what looked to be bandits slunk in. It took him a moment to register it before he managed to scream a warning to Farkas. The Companion’s back had been turned, and he’d been distracted, but he was still inhumanly quick to heed the call.

Farkas let out an animalistic growl as he was backed into a corner by the bandits. He watched the group with sharp eyes, a hand out as if he was hesitating to reach for his sword.

“Well, well, well…” Drawled the apparent leader. “And who do we have here? A pup that’s strayed from his pack? A mutt with his tail between his legs? You can’t take us down when it’s just one of you, can you?”

“Boss, what about the one in the cage?” A shorter bandit asked, glancing to where Mitchell stood.

“Ignore it, we’ll save it for later. This one’s wearing the armor, so this one dies. We can interrogate that one after.”

Farkas’s growl drowned out their speech, and the leader snapped back to him. “What’s wrong, dog? Is that your bitch in that kennel?” He taunted, and Farkas’ glare could cause a nuclear fallout.

“You’re a fool if you think a few Silver Hand are enough to take a Companion down.” Farkas snarled back, huffing up.

“You’re a fool for being so arrogant, dog!” The leader shouted back.

He lead the charge with a battle cry, raising his sword. Mitchell shrieked and fumbled with his bow, trying to aim an arrow through the slots in the gate. He watched helplessly as the Silver Hand members lunged, feeling his heart sink in his chest. Mitch wanted to cram his eyes shut, yet he couldn’t turn away in his horror.

Farkas was going to die.

Farkas was spasming. Farkas was snarling. Farkas was dying?- Farkas was… not Farkas? Wait, what?

What had collapsed on the ground had been Farkas. What had raised itself on it’s hind legs was not.

A beast stood in Farkas’s place, a wolf who stood back on two legs and let out a howl that sent chills down Mitchell’s spine. The wolf charged forward, catching the leader’s sword hand in it’s massive jaws and ripping it clean off, leaving the leader reeling and screaming. One snap of the wolf’s jaws around his throat had the leader’s corpse hitting the ground. The battle froze for a moment, the Silver Hand members pulling back. The wolf didn’t hesitate to pursue them, dropping a second and third together as he ripped through their leather armor like paper. The fourth and fifth tried shooting him, only for the fourth to fall to the wolf’s teeth.

One arrow managed to strike the wolf in the shoulder, though that did nothing to deter it. The wolf lunged and bit hard into the final Silver Hand’s arm, making her screech in pain. She met her end quickly, collapsing to the floor after the wolf ripped her throat out. Her lifeless body flopped down, and Mitchell turned and vomited into the nearest urn.

The wolf sat back on his haunches, licking his chops clean. He glanced over briefly to Mitchell, and Mitchell held back a scream. The wolf padded towards him, placing a paw on the bars and yelping a little as the action sent a jolt of pain through his shoulder. Mitchell exhaled softly, finding brown puppy dog eyes staring at him through the bars. “Farkas?”

The wolf shook its tail slightly before turning away and trotting back past the other gate. Mitchell felt panic seize him and keep hold on him right until the bars slid up and he was freed from the alcove. Placing his bow back over his shoulder, Mitchell carefully drew his spear in place of it and walked slowly towards the other gate. “Farkas?” He called, worry filling his voice. “Farkas?!”

“I’m here.” Farkas grunted, and Mitchell scrambled after the sound of his voice.

Farkas was collapsed back against the wall, naked as the day he was born and holding his shoulder tightly. Blood seeped out from under his hand, and Mitchell quickly rushed to his side. He retrieved the healing potion and bandages from his satchel without a second thought, handing over the potion and setting to work as Farkas chugged it down.

Farkas shivered a little in the cool air of the cave, and Mitchell wrapped his cloak around his shoulders until the shaking went away and Farkas seemed a little more stable.

“So.” Mitchell said, softly, running his fingers soothingly through Farkas’s hair and letting him regain his breath. “That was a thing.”

Wincing, Farkas bowed his head. “It’s a bit of a secret.”

“I gathered that.” Mitchell replied. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” Farkas said. “Just help me stand up and I can get my armor back on. It should be scattered around out there.”

When Farkas was armored up again, and Mitchell had collected his thoughts, they continued on through the Cairn. Mitchell let Farkas lean on him, and picked off most of the draugr that appeared with his bow. As they walked, Farkas chewed his lip and exhaled.

“It’s… a long story. But the Companions are werewolves. Inner circle is, at least.” Farkas explained softly. “Kodlak or Vilkas, they could explain better.”

“We can ask them when we get back then.” Mitchell said softly. “C’mon, we get the fragment and then we get your shoulder looked at. What matters is you’re alright, alright?”

“You still… care? About me?” Farkas asked, perplexed. “Even after finding that out?”

Mitchell snorted. “I’ve faced a lot of shit since I first landed here. Werewolves are just another thing I’ll have to get used to. Besides, you’re my shield-brother. You saved both our lives. I ain’t ever leaving you behind just because you’re a werewolf, alright?”

“Alright.” Farkas agreed, and he pressed his forehead briefly to Mitchell’s temple before turning his eyes back towards their goal.

Still, Mitchell felt the tension in his stance. “Far, I mean it. You’re a werewolf, I’m cool with that. At the end of the day, you’re __my_ werewolf_, got it?”

“Got it. Now let’s get the piece and go.”


	23. Stuck in a Circle

The last Mitchell saw of Farkas, he'd been taken down to his quarters by Aela and Vilkas, and a healer had been summoned from the temple to look over him. It was a relief he and Farkas had made it back before Farkas collapsed. He’d no doubt irked the guards by using his whirlwind sprint to get Farkas from the city gates to Jorrvaskr, but as he had kindly explained to the Captain, they could either deal with that or a dead companion.

With nothing he could do until the healer was finished, Mitchell stepped away from Jorrvaskr for awhile. He took a walk around the cloud district, allowing himself some time to breathe again, letting himself appreciate the cool evening breeze through his hair and then slow setting of the sun. He sat back for a while and relaxed about as much as he could while listening to Heimskr harp on about Talos. When that tolerance for preaching ran out, Mitchell drifted away from Heimskr’s soapbox and up the stone steps to Dragonsreach.

In the time it took for Mitchell to be called back to Jorrvaskr, he found Proventus, purchased Breezehome, had it arranged to be furnished, and stopped off for lunch at the Bannered Mare. That was where Ria found him, sitting back at the corner table and tapping something into the screen of his phone. He followed after Ria without hesitation when she called for him, trailing along like a bouncing puppy at her heels.

“Kodlak asked after you.” Ria explained, a smile quirking at her lips as she watched Mitchell’s curls bounce in the breeze. “He said he had something he needed to discuss.”

Ria caught Mitchell’s brief cringe and cocked her head aside. “Is something wrong?”

Mitchell chewed his lip and shook his head. “Not yet. But I have a feeling I know what Kodlak wants.”

“Something to do with Farkas getting hurt?” Ria asked, concern lighting up her face.

“Yeah. Granted, not something he’s gonna kick me out over, don’t worry about that… just, I saw some shit he’s probably none too happy about me seein’.” Mitch chuckled awkwardly.

Frowning, Ria shook her head. “No matter the trouble you may get in, I don’t believe Kodlak will be truly angered. He knows it’s not your fault Farkas got hurt.”

Mitchell felt a twist in his gut. “You’re an absolute star, Ria. Thanks for the reassurance.”

Despite the anxiousness building in him, the smile he gave her before descending down into the personal quarters was genuine.

\---

Kodlak awaited him in his sitting room, greeting him with a smile and a nod. He gestured for Mitchell to sit down and pushed over a mug of ale to him. As Mitchell took a long drag of the ale, Kodlak shook his head and sighed. “So I hear that you’ve been permitted to know secrets before your time, eh?”

Mitchell flushed, setting down his mug and bowing his head. “Yes, sir. Farkas saved both of our lives, but…”

“The silver hand attacked the both of you in the Cairn. They were lying in wait.” Kodlak said grimly.

He took a breath and shook his head again before smiling tiredly. “Farkas has fully recovered with the help of the healers. I daresay we wouldn’t be able to say that this soon without you having sent the guards into a flurry after you shouted the two of you here.”

Kodlak’s eyes twinkled with amusement as Mitchell laughed awkwardly. He stopped Mitchell’s half assed explanation with a raised hand and let out a chuckle himself. “I do not blame you, dragonborn, for using your gift. Especially not when it is used to help those you love. And whatever you may think, I did not call you here to remove you from the companions. Quite the opposite, in fact.”

Rising, Kodlak signalled for Mitchell to follow him.

\---

Out in the training yard, the inner circle stood before them. Kodlak took his place in between Skjor and Farkas, while Mitchell stepped in between Vilkas and Aela. He pursed his lips and glanced around, taking a headcount and then looking to Kodlak with a cocked eyebrow. Kodlak smiled in return and spoke, addressing the entire circle.

“Brothers and sisters of the circle, today we welcome a new member into our mortal fold.” He announced, speaking loud and clear. “Who will vouch for him?”

Farkas stepped forth then, standing tall and grinning. He looked tired, yet please. He had recovered well enough, though he would still need a rest and a break. Mitch made a side note to talk him into a nap later as Farkas spoke.

“I stand witness to the courage of the soul before us!” Farkas said proudly, gazing over to Mitchell before looking back to Kodlak.

“Would you raise your shield in his defense? Your sword for his honor?”

Farkas had never looked more sure before. He puffed his chest out as he replied; “I would stand at his back, that the world might never overtake us.”

“And would you raise a mug in his name?”

“I would lead the song of triumph as our mead hall reveled in his stories.”

Kodlak nodded, and looked around the circle once more. He was met with grins of agreement and hearty nods from the other circle members. Each one stood proud, welcoming Mitchell with pride.

“Then the judgement of the circle is complete! Mitchell Xavier’s heart beats with the fury and courage that have united the Companions since the days of the distant green summers. Let it beat with ours, that the mountains may echo and that our enemies may tremble at the call!”

“It shall be so.” Vilkas said, leading a chorus of echoed words from the others.

Kodlak approached Mitchell as the circle broke apart and drifted away. “So boy, you’re one of us now. I have faith that you will not disappoint.”

Mitchell gave him a half-hearted laugh. “I’ll try not to. Fingers crossed.”

Patting him firmly on the shoulder, Kodlak gave him a stern look. “I am serious. You’re on your way to being a hero, Mitchell. Don’t downplay your own courage.”

“I’ll try not to.”

Kodlak stood back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Go then. Farkas will no doubt want to speak with you.”

\---

Farkas waited in the veranda for Mitchell, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as he pulled Mitchell into a bear hug and clapped him on the back. He pulled away grinning, still holding Mitchell’s shoulders. “Welcome to the circle.”

Offering a smile and a shrug, Mitchell replied. “Thanks. How’s your shoulder feeling?”

“Better now. They brought in a priestess to patch me up.”

“Mhm, good. We’ll have to be more careful in the future.”

Farkas nodded, a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry, if I was a little out of it after…”

“You were fine, dude. You nearly gave me a heart attack, but otherwise you were alright. More than alright.”

Looking relieved, Farkas wrapped an arm around Mitchell’s shoulders and turned them both away from Jorrvaskr. “Well then, if we’re both alright, would you like to start our celebration of your joining in our circle?”

Mitchell leaned into his touch and threw him a wink. “You know me, Far. I’m always up for a party.”

\---

Gathered in the newly furnished Breezehome, Mitchell, Lydia, Aela, and Farkas himself sat around the room, talking mostly as they relaxed. It was hardly a party, and Farkas slept for half of it, but it was nice. Peaceful. A switch from their usual chaos. Mitchell wasn’t about to complain about having a moment to catch his breath again.

Aela lounged back in her chair, brow furrowed in thought. When Mitchell asked her what was going on behind that frown, she declined to answer. “Later,” she had told him. “Let me think.”

It wasn’t hard for Mitchell to drop the subject, distracted by watching over Farkas as he was. He sat with his back against the headboard, his fingers entwined with Farkas’s as Farkas slept. They had winded down into companionable silence, each one taking comfort in being around the others without expectation or responsibility. There was a sneaking suspicion in Mitchell’s mind that figured the others liked these quiet moments just as much as he did.

At some point along the evening, Farkas awok in a groggy state. He shuffled into a sitting position, eyes still closed and nose stuffy. He cleared his throat and nuzzled up against Mitchell’s shoulder, softly groaning as Mitch gave his head a pat.

“I think it’s time Farkas and I returned to Jorrvaskr.” Aela remarked as she watched them, a smirk playing at her lips. “Unless you two…”

Farkas raised his head in confusion, whilst Mitchell’s eyebrows shot up to have a nice conversation with his hairline about the weather. The sound of Farkas’s brain at work was quite audible to everyone in the room, though he did not ponder what they assumed.

After a breath, Farkas gave a hesitant nod. “We should go. I think I need to speak with Kodlak…”

He trailed off as well, unable to elaborate. Farkas gave an apologetic look to Mitchell, who shrugged and fixed Farkas’s hair. “No big deal. Go on, get some sleep before tomorrow.”

Giving one last nudge of his forehead against Mitchell’s shoulder, Farkas pushed away and trekked from the room, slouching like a kicked puppy. Aela sighed at his back, shaking her head fondly. “Clueless.”

She turned back to Mitchell and gave a wave. “When you get back from your little adventure, find me. We need to have a little fun of our own. You as well, Lydia.”

Aela threw a wink to Lydia and gave a nod to Mitchell before she left, following after Farkas’s footsteps. It left only thane and housecarl in the bedroom, sitting together in silence. It would be Mitchell who broke it. He cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses, his hands fidgeting.

“So, you and Aela?” He asked, a bit awkwardly.

Lydia shrugged. “We have an… arrangement. Benefits to our friendship, as it is.”

“Ah.” Mitchell replied. “I had a suspicion. But you’re not exclusive?”

“No.” Lydia smirked. “Why, have you finally found the secrets you sought out in the sway of my arse as I walk?”

Mitchell had the grace enough to flush. “Just curious, that’s all. It was rude of me to ask, I’m sorry.”

With a dismissive wave of her hand, Lydia chuckled. “You’ve asked far worse before, my thane. My friendship with Aela is no secret to hide.”

“I mostly just worry about stealing you away from her too long. Wouldn’t wanna cockblock, y’know?”

“Unless you intend to start a Pussy Patrol, you’re doing fine so far.” Lydia joked reassuringly. “I enjoy your company as much as I enjoy Aela’s, and I know that goes for Farkas as well. You’re strangely not as irritating as you seem.”

Mitch threw her a flat look. “You’re a wonderful boost to my ego.” He deadpanned. “Still. I enjoy you guys too.”

Lydia hummed. “As much as Elisif?”

“More. Just because sometimes I like to branch out, don’t mean my main crew aren’t still my favorite people!” Mitchell replied, guilt twinging in him. “It was a dick move on my part, I know. I’m sorry.”

“Hmm. It’s not me you’ll need to apologize to; I’m fine with it. But dear Farkas…”

Mitchell cocked an eyebrow and tossed his head aside. “Oh?”

Lydia pursed her lips. “He’s… He’s a jealous type, I think.”

 _He’s a werewolf and he’s the jealous type. Is this a fucking teen wolf fanfic?_   Mitchell thought to himself, looking rather perturbed.

But he didn’t say that. He said instead, softly, “Oh.”

Shrugging, Lydia stood. “In any case, it is getting late. We should both get some sleep. Goodnight, my thane.”

“Night, Lyd. Sleep well.”

\---

Just before he could fall asleep in the comfort that was his new bed, Mitchell’s phone buzzed with a text. He wearily pulled back on his glasses and glanced at the screen, and felt his heart go numb and a soft noise escape his throat.

On the screen read one simple message from his brother. _Happy early birthday! I won’t be able to text tomorrow, but we all wish you the best and we all miss you xx_

Below, a picture of Gabe sitting with their parents, smiling up at the camera on Gabe’s phone. Bubbles sat in his Mother’s lap, much larger than he had been when Mitchell had last seen him but still clearly a kitten. Mitchell felt his heart rise in his throat and felt his mouth go dry.

Tomorrow, on the 18th of Heartfire, on the 18th of September, he would be 26. It would mark his fourth month in Skyrim.

How much longer did he have to wait until he could return home?

\---

Sitting on the steps of Jorrvaskr, Mitchell watched the sunrise. He'd gotten as much sleep as he was going to. He supposed that even a few hours was better than none at all. Once again he checked the screen on his phone, watching the time tick by. Three days. God, he hadn't even been watching the dates. An entire summer in Skyrim, with time going by him like an arrow.

One day to September 18th. One day, and he’d officially turn 26. He looked over Gabe’s text again, and he felt that hopelessness well up inside him.

A welcome distraction to his reverie came in the form of a man, wandering about the cloud district and pausing at the statue of Talos. He had spotted Mitchell on the steps and approached slowly, tilting his head back and regarding Mitch with a warm smile.

“Mitchell Xavier?” He asked, stepping forward.

“That’d be me.” Mitchell nodded. “And you are?”

The man took a quick bow. “Brynden Stark, at your service. Delphine sent me.”


	24. Dungeons and Dwemer

The sun rose over a snowy horizon as Mitchell trudged through the drifts at Brynden Stark’s side. Quietly they conversed, completely oblivious to the glares that their respective companions gave each other. Behind Mitchell’s back, Lydia looked splendidly close to ripping Delvin’s head off. Behind Brynden’s back, Brynjolf’s scowl was close to melting the snow on Farkas’s shoulders. With all the tension behind them and all of the blowing snow ahead of them, it was nothing short of a miracle that Mitchell and Brynden managed to hold their conversation in blissful ignorance. 

“So in your world, your ‘phone’ acts as a communication device?” Brynden asked for clarification. “But it seems like so much more!” 

“Yeah, well. It is? I mean, my iPhone is less of a phone and more of a computer- kind of hard for me to explain, I’m a theater student not a computer scientist- but at a phone’s most basic form that’s what it does. I can show you more when we’re not facing twenty thousand tons of white bullshit.” Mitchell called back over the roaring of another strong gust of wind. 

“Thank you then, I’d quite like to-” Brynden found himself cut off by a slap of snow to his face “-HUEHGHGH!” 

Mitchell’s snickering at Brynden’s grumpy cat disgruntledness cause him to choke on the incoming snow as well. It felt just like being back home. Finally stumbling on Aftland and ducking into the cave entrance was a blessing, as it allowed the two idiots to finally spit out the snow without immediately getting another mouthful.

\---

If Mitchell thought the cold was bad, then he was about to get bitch slapped by the heat of the ruins. He'd stripped out of his hoodie halfway through the first room and tied it around his waist. Had Brynden not conjured up a frost orb to keep the group relatively cool, Mitch would've ditched his shirt too. 

“Wish this fucking ruin would decide on its temperature.” Mitchell grumbled, pulling back his hoodie once they'd passed into another, cooler room. 

Bryn snorted and dispelled his orb, shrugging. “There won't be too many more vent rooms from here on out. We should be getting closer to the Blackreach entrance right about- DUCK!”

Mitchell narrowly dodged the ice spike Bryn sent flying into the heart of the creature lurking in the shadows. He tripped over himself as he jumped back, knocking into Farkas as the spike shot by him. “Shit!” He swore loudly, hanging onto Farkas’s shoulder to steady himself. 

“Sorry, that was a falmer. Corrupted snow elves, they look… well…” Brynden gestured vaguely to the corpse that had fallen forward. 

Wincing, Mitchell gripped a little tighter on Farkas’s arm. “Gross.” 

There was a general hum of agreement from the other party members. Delvin dropped by the body to check it for valuables or anything useful, though he hardly looked pleased with himself for doing so. His fellow thieves didn't exactly seem to be eager either. 

“Rip off the ears for me too, would ya mate?” Brynden asked, a smirk playing at his lips. “They're good for making poison.” 

Delvin shot him a glare that very clearly stated the only reason he'd be removing falmer ears would be so he could shove them up Brynden’s ass. Thankfully, Brynjolf’s interjection stopped him from doing that. 

“Collect ingredients on your own time, Den.” He grunted. “We’re here for the dragonborn, not to be your pack mules. Hopefully there won’t be more falmer lurking around here on out.” 

\---

While Brynden was right about being beyond the vent rooms, Brynjolf’s hopes for no falmer were crushed. The creatures swarmed the ruins, creeping in the shadows, stalking after the party and watching them. Brynden was the most attuned to their presence, though he didn’t shoot at them unless they attacked first. Mitchell was thankful for that. The sounds of a falmer dying weren’t exactly upbeat tunes and every time one of Bryn’s arrows hit it’s mark, a loud squelch rang out, making Mitch tense up and squeeze Farkas’s wrist. 

Erik took pity, falling back behind Brynden to walk beside Mitch. He offered his arm and his shield and kept close for the rest of the trek. Though Erik didn't look happy to be here either, he was taking it remarkably well. When Mitch commented on it, he receive a shrug in return. 

“Bryn brings me into ruins a lot.” He explained, voice low enough so that only Mitchell could hear. 

The others were lost in their own conversation up front so Erik continued. “He insists he comes because there are rarer ingredients down here, but honestly he's interested in the tech more than anything else. He knows more about it than anyone in Skyrim! He even got to be Calcelmo’s apprentice for a few years!” 

Pride shone within Erik’s hushed whispers. Though Mitchell had no idea who Calcelmo was, he felt the impressiveness that being an apprentice to him must've carried. But he did have to wonder…

“That sounds great, but… well, why does Brynden insist it's because of the ingredients? Is there something wrong with Dwemer tech, or…?”

Erik winced. “Not that it's wrong, it's just… there are rumours, about dwarven technology. About the power it possesses. Bryn keeps his knowledge of Dwemer technology private, he doesn't want big names knowing about his research. The things we've seen could shoot bolts from their metal fists faster than any man with a crossbow. They're near invulnerable, to the point where Brynden and I had to bring half of the ruins worth of magic and arrows down on a prototype centurion to bring it down. Could you imagine a man like Ulfric with the killing power of Dwemer war contraptions? Bryn doesn't want men like him knowing the rumours are true.” 

Mitchell bit his lip, briefly considering it, and then taking it immediately to the worst possible level. Ulfric Stormcloak with tanks and gatling guns. The Empire with nuclear missiles. The Thalmor with atomic bombs. A knot twisted in his stomach just at the thought of Elenwen having any influence in a world where those kinds of weapons existed. His world. 

“God.” Mitchell exhaled. “God. I can understand why.” 

Erik frowned and bowed his head. “Bryn and I do what we can to block access to the ruins and spread rumours of curses. It may not be the wisest thing or the nicest thing, but it's better than letting innocent people wander in brazenly and get themselves killed because they didn't know what was coming.”

Nodding, Mitchell scratched at his stubble. “I think that happens in my world too, but it's less about keeping the technology dormant and more about respecting the wishes of the dead. I mean, Ancient Egyptians used to write warnings of curses and terrible fates befalling people who entered their tombs, to ward off looters and robbers.” 

“And did it work?” Erik asked. 

“God, no. Pyramids and tombs are still broken into all the time. It was practically a sport in the nineteenth and twentieth century.”

“We have the same struggles with Nordic ruins. Granted, Bryn may be a thief but…”

“But the preservation of ancient culture for knowledge and study comes before my personal inclination towards shiny things.” Bryn interrupted, having drifted back to stand beside Erik and Mitchell while Brynjolf and Delvin took the lead. 

“Besides,” he continued with a grin. “Pickpocketing Ulfric is so much more fun.” 

Erik huffed, though there was no malice in it. “At least you did like it, before you got us banned from Windhelm for picking a fight with Rolff.” 

“I stand by my actions and he deserved it.” Bryn stated coolly. 

“You broke his nose and then healed it so you could break it again, Brynden.” Erik reminded him. 

“I stand by my petty actions and he still deserved it.” 

Farkas let out a snort at that. For the first time that night, his glare softened when it landed on Brynden. 

\---

“We’ll stop here for the night before we enter Blackreach. It's best we go in rested.” Brynden announced as they neared the end chambers of Aftland. 

A murmur of agreement echoed through the room. Camp was swiftly set up with many hands making light work, so it wasn't long before Mitchell was sitting beside Brynden, the two hunched over Mitchell’s iPhone screen. Mitch showed off basic functions for the most part; music, calculating, texting, calling, pictures, and of course, Siri. 

“Hey Siri, what's my name?” Mitchell asked the system, waiting to hear the telltale tone of recognition. 

“Your name is Mitchell Xavier, but you have asked me to call you ‘The Actor Formerly Known as Mitchell.’ Would you like to change that?” Siri’s robotic but pleasant voice chimed out. 

“Nope, that's fine Siri! Thanks!” Mitch replied before relocking his phone. “She judges me for my life choices.” 

Brynden chuckled. “She would judge me as well, I'd assume. She's quite interesting. Thank you for sharing this with me, it's… fascinating, to say the least.”

“Mhm, no problemo.” Mitchell replied, finally handing over his phone to Farkas so he could play Bejewelled again. 

Cocking his head aside, Brynden bit his lip. “How is it that we had to enter a passcode to access your phone, But it responds to Farkas’s touch without one?” He asked. 

“Oh, that? I added his thumbprint to my settings so it’d respond to his touch, so he doesn't need the passcode. It works with mine too, I just didn't feel like using it when I showed you.” Mitchell answered. “You either need the thumbprint or the passcode to get in. I have both, my brother, Farkas, and Lydia have the passcode and the other thumbprints. If I die in my world, Gabe can get in. If I die here, Farkas or Lydia can get in.” 

Both Lydia and Farkas tensed up at the casual mention of death. Though Mitchell was oblivious to it, Brynden easily caught the way they stiffened and blanched at the thought. “You won't die here under the watch of your housecarl and companion.” He said firmly. “Or under any of our watches, for that matter.”

Mitchell offered a small smile. “Thanks. I don't intend to let myself die either way, but… thanks.” 

Brynden gave him a light pat on the back. “We should get some rest, mate. We've got a long road ahead.” 

\---

A lot of things had stolen Mitchell's breath so far in Skyrim. The view from the Throat of the World, the plains of Whiterun, a few dragons, Farkas’s sweet ass… none quite lived up to seeing Blackreach for the first time (Sorry, Farkas.) 

“Holy fuck.” Mitchell said in awe. 

Brynden smirked. “Yeah, that's about what I said too.” 

“Not gonna lie, if I get murdered by some fucking dwarf robot I'm not even gonna care at this point. Holy shit.” Mitchell breathed out. “Like, this’s the kinda cool shit that gets you killed and you can't even get mad.” 

Chewing at his lip thoughtfully, Brynden nodded in agreement. “Aye. Just seems alright sometimes. Not like I wouldn't fight, but if I get stabbed down here it'll just be like, “cheers mate, fair play to ya. Can I keep this knife?””

“Yeah, exactly.” Mitchell grinned. 

He turned to Lydia and Farkas while gesturing at Brynden. “This guy gets me.”

After he had returned to Brynden’s side to venture further into Blackreach and was out of earshot, Erik leaned into Farkas and Lydia with a grin. 

“You can both relax; Brynden’s mine.” He said reassuringly. “Lets catch up with them before they get themselves hurt.”

Stunningly, neither Mitchell or Brynden had gotten hurt by the time the others had caught up. Both men were crouched behind a crumbling wall, eyes locked on a creeping dwemer spider. Significantly less scary than real spiders, but considerably more vicious than the average daddy long legs. What mattered was they scared Mitchell less than the frostbite spiders that seemed to infest Skyrim’s other ruins. 

What mattered was Mitchell carefully drawing his arm back and the letting go, letting his arrow fly and strike the dwemer spider in it’s centre, effectively disabling it. 

“Nice shot.” Brynden complimented. “Aela taught you?” 

“Yeah.”

“She's good.” Brynden replied approvingly. “Now see if you can hit that gloomlurker over there.”

Alright, fair try. Mitch nocked another arrow and drew his bow back, steadying both his breath and his hand before he gave a quick count of three and fired another shot. He only managed to hit the gloomlurker in the stomach, so he quickly nocked another arrow and sent the second shot into the gloomlurker’s neck. 

“No one-shot this time.” Mitch murmured in disappointment. “Damn.”

“You don't need one-shots all the time. Put enough arrows in something, eventually it'll die.” Brynden said in return. “Besides, all these swordsmen aren't going to kill everything in one swing either.”

Only then did Mitchell notice the sheer amount of swords being carried by his and Brynden’s companions. The only exceptions were Etienne’s daggers. Mitch immediately had a striking flashback to his very first game of DnD, where he was the sole Bard in a group of Paladins, with one Wizard. 

“We should probably get going before those swords become necessary to use.” Mitchell murmured. 

Brynden gave a lopsided grin. “Follow me then. And try not to trigger any traps.” 

\---

Had it been another life, Mitchell might’ve taken his time going through Blackreach. He might've sat amongst the ruins and taken enough pictures to fill his phone’s leftover gigabytes. He might've picked up the crimson leaves that sang to him with roughly the annoyance factor of a recent Adam Sandler movie. He might've discovered the dragon that lurked above. 

As it was, Mitchell followed Brynden as quickly through Blackreach as he could. He let out a breath of relief at the sight of the tower of Mzark. This was it. This was endgame. All Mitchell had to do was get the scrolls, go to the Throat of the World, kick Alduin’s ass six ways from Sunday, and then _finally_ go home. He was so close now he could taste it. 

With head held high, Mitch followed Brynden into the tower. 

\---

Even with the sound of the others complaining about the spiralling stairs filling the area, the tower was still a grand sight. Brynden and Mitchell remained at the head of the group, though from the way Brynden was fidgeting Mitch could tell it was taking all of his focus to remain there. Brynden kept glancing off at the various contraptions that littered the way. Purple and gold sparks danced at his fingertips, and he was no longer attempting to make quiet conversation. 

Brynden paused at the top of the stairs, gazing out to the intricate glass-and-metal structure ahead of them. He then glanced over to the platform, simply taking in the sight of everything and sorting each item out in his thoughts. Brynden watched their surroundings, and Mitchell watched him, almost able to physically see the gears turning in Brynden’s head. 

His gaze turned to the golden dwemer console, and so Mitchell’s eyes followed. It took only a few seconds for him to spot the receptacle that Septimus had hinted at. All hesitation left him as Mitchell rushed to press the blank Lexicon into it’s receptacle. Brynden was on his heels; he the first to see the glass and metal shift away to let a light shine through the open space. 

“It's a puzzle.” Brynden and Mitchell said in perfect unison, looking like grown up Harry Potter and Ron Weasley, about to get into more and more trouble. 

They turned back to the pedestals together, both eyeing the button that had just opened up. Mitchell cocked an eyebrow and stepped a bit closer. 

“Well….” he began, scratching at his not-quite-a-beard-yet-but-too-much-to-just-be-stubble. “... my plan is pressing buttons until something happens. You've got any better ideas?” 

Brynden considered it for a moment. “No, not really. Want help?”

It was one of the rare times in Mitchell’s life where the stupid solution was the right one. Hey, wasn't like he could've looked up a walkthrough anyways. 

The lights aligned with the glass on the floor, sending a pulse of energy through the Lexicon. Whirring and the shifting of gears rang throughout the room as a container lowered from the ceiling, the energy flowing out and around like a low static shock. Mitchell felt every inch of him go on edge as he cautiously toed towards the new container. It opened up at his touch, revealing a massive metal object with a gem sparkling at its centre. 

Mitchell slipped his hands into his hoodie sleeves before picking up what he assumed was the scroll and hugging it close to him. It was surprisingly light- not much heavier than his spear. The scroll let off a comfy warmth that Mitchell was grateful for as he moved to return to Brynden’s side. 

“It should be safe to touch against bare skin.” Brynden informed him, only half paying attention to Mitchell.

His eyes were fixed on the now-runed Lexicon, following the curves of the inscription and studying it with his brow furrowed. “This belonged to Septimus?” Brynden asked softly. 

“Yeah. He loaned it to me. Told me to bring it back to him. He was the one who told us where to find the scroll.” Mitchell explained. “Is he a friend of yours?” 

“He was the one who convinced Calcelmo to let me apprentice him.” 

Brynden considered the Lexicon for a moment further before removing it from the receptacle. “I can return it to him, if you'd like. I've been meaning to visit, but then there was the incident near Shearpoint, and then this asshole of an elf at the college…” He trailed off, a look of guilt clear on his face. 

Mitchell nodded. “Please. I need to get the jump on Alduin, and you going saves me time. I want him to have it back.”

“We can do that.” Erik replied, stepping in to pat Brynden on the back and tug the Lexicon away from him. 

“Thank you. And tell him thank you too.” Mitchell insisted. “I hope the old guy finds what he was looking for.” 

“Aye.” Brynden agreed quietly. “And I hope you succeed in your quest, Mitchell. You're a good man.” 

“I-I… thanks, Bryn. You're a good man too.” 

They shared a smile before Delvin cleared his throat and broke the moment. “That's lovely. Can we get out before we find out whatever trap we just set off due to that?”

\---

The party split outside the ruins. Delvin and Brynjolf both offered their best wishes and an invitation to the Thieves Guild if he ever changed his mind about leaving Skyrim. Etienne gave Mitchell a brief pat on the back before following Delvin and Brynjolf away. He smiled with a certain sort of confidence Mitchell hadn't seen way back in Solitude, seeming more relaxed and reassured. 

At first it looked as though Brynden wanted to say some parting words, but he cut himself off in favour of a quick embrace, reaching out to pull Mitch in close. He smelled like pine and campfire smoke, and he offered a hug that definitely hit in Mitchell’s top ten hugs list. It was one where Mitchell didn't quite wanna let go, ‘cause having Brynden hold him made him feel safe. 

“You look out for yourself, luv.” Brynden told him. “You're gonna do something great, I can feel it. I hope you get home. Divines forbid, but if you can't then Neverwhere Hall will gladly welcome you to make a new home there.” 

Brynden pulled away slowly, and Erik quickly took his place. He wrapped Mitchell in an armoured bear hug. Surprisingly more comfortable than it sounds. Probably about a #8 on the hugs list. Brief, but incredibly pleasant. 

“It's been an honour to meet you, Mitch.” Erik said cheerily. “Brynden and I are only a raven away if you ever need us.”

Mitchell wanted to hug them both again. He refrained. “Thanks, guys. You both stay safe too.” 

\---

“So, are your worries settled now?” Delvin teased as he settled in by the campfire. 

Etienne didn't bother to look up from his journal. “He's safe. He's going to be fine with his Housecarl and the Companion.”

“More than safe.” Brynjolf snorted as he poked at the flames with a stick. “At least the loot was good, else I'd've knocked ‘Den up the head for how boring it was to watch him and the dragonborn play hunters.”

Delvin chuckled. “You just had the wrong view, Brynjolf. You should've taken one from this one's book and positioned yourself so you could best view the dragonborn’s ass.”

The redness on Etienne’s face was completely caused by the heat of the flames. His voice crack when he told Delvin to fuck off was because of the smoke. 

“Well, he was looker.” Brynjolf smirked. “Must've looked damn divine when he came to your rescue.”

“I hate you both and I'm quitting so I can join the Companions.” Etienne deadpanned. 

“What, so you can see the dragonborn more?” Brynjolf drawled. “Come off it lad, it's just a spot of fun.” 

“Like you weren't eyeing Stark and merc the entire time.” Etienne muttered. 

Brynjolf looked about ready to say something, but it seemed his clever words escaped him. He wisely shut his trap before the trademark playful teasing of the Guild turned into full on bullying. He was better than that. 

… Even if Delvin deserved some ribbing for his sizing up of Lydia. Even if Etienne’s puppy crush was hilarious to him. 

“Cards, anyone?” 

\---

“You alright, Bryn?” Erik asked softly, trailing his fingers through Brynden’s hair as he shifted closer to him on the bedroll. 

“Huh? Oh, I'm fine. Just… thinking.” 

“A septim for your thoughts?” 

Brynden sighed softly and bowed his head against Erik’s shoulder. “I worry for Septimus. It's been a long time, and what he was researching…” Brynden trailed off and shook his head. “Septimus was a friend. Is a friend. I hope he's doing alright. I haven't seen him for so long.” 

Erik hummed and pressed a kiss to Brynden’s forehead. “We’ll help him if he needs it. Better you go late than never.”

“I suppose you're right.” Brynden murmured. 

\---

Mitchell caught a carriage from the nearest town to take him and his companions to Ivarstead directly. No hesitation, no pit stop. This had to get done. The usual wanderings of Mitchell’s mind on carriage rides had been replaced with a hyperfixation on the fight ahead. He reviewed what Aela had taught him, what guidance Eorlund and Kodlak had given. Techniques and tricks and trusting in himself, and- 

“Mitchell?”

Mitch glanced up, his thoughts breaking as he met Farkas’s eyes. “Yeah?”

Farkas hesitated. Lydia slept beside him, and the driver paid them no mind, and Farkas stumbled over his words in his mind. 

“... would you stay? Even if you could go home?” That was wrong, but it was what came out. The guilty feeling of fucking up followed and Farkas winced. 

Mitchell, in turn, was caught off guard. “I… I don't know. No? Skyrim is… fantastic. Amazing. Freeing, almost, but…”

He trailed off with a sigh and rubbed at his eyes. “I have a life back home. Friends and family who miss me, and obligations, and it's _home…_ I don't belong here, as beautiful as it is.”

Farkas swallowed. “I. I understand.”

“I'll miss you guys, though.” Mitchell said gently. “You and Lydia are my family too. You've been better friends than I could've ever hoped for.” 

_I wish we could be more than friends._ “You've been a good friend too.” Farkas forced a smile. “You should get some sleep. We have a big fight in the morning.”

“Yeah, you're right. I guess my nerves are keeping me up.” Mitch chuckled quietly. “I'm kinda cold though, d’ya mind if I steal some heat from you?”

If Mitchell wanted to rest up against him, Farkas wasn't about to say no. If Mitchell thought he couldn't stay, then Farkas would accept it. If Mitchell let his head fall against Farkas’s shoulder, then Farkas would brush back his curls and tell him goodnight. 

He would miss him. He would mourn. He would learn to eventually move on. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy shit lads I'm alive, and it's been three years since I started this story over on the kink meme!! I'm sorry for the wild delay on this shit, I've been workin on this chapter for months in between the hectic nature of being in senior year lmao. 
> 
> since i've last posted, i've been accepted into my local community college to study animation and graphics and graduated high school with honors!! 
> 
> ballpark estimate is that this story will wrap up around chapter 31. thanks to everyone who's stuck around so far!


	25. Dragon Battle, Part 1

Morning dawned on the Throat of the World, and for just a moment the air stood still. 

Farkas and Lydia watched in combined awe and terror as Mitchell forced open the scroll and let himself fall into a haze of prophetic visions. To the two standing off to the side, it felt like being unable to stop a friend from making a stupid decision; even if that decision was a necessary evil. None of them had had a clue what reading the Elder Scroll would entail. Neither Farkas or Lydia had considered what the abject horror that seized them when the Elder Scroll wrapped Mitchell in a trance would feel like. 

To Mitchell, it was a lot less like watching a possession in progress and a lot more like yanking open a sticky blind, only for the blind to start projecting an LSD dream over it’s surface. 

Everything Mitchell saw was partially obscured by a dark red haze. Two warriors, wielding their blades with pride and fighting off a snarling dragon. The winds under the dragon’s wings whipped at their hair and clothing, but did little to deter them. The dragon fell to their attack. It was bloody. It had fought fiercely. 

It had died there, soaking the snow beneath it with red-black blood. 

The ground seemed to steam beneath their feet as the warriors of old walked away from the corpse. Gormlaith and Hakon stood together, their words meaning nothing and everything at all. When the image of Felldir appeared holding the Elder Scroll, Mitchell felt a tugging in his gut. 

A tugging that only grew in intensity as Alduin’s shadow rushed into clarity. Everything around Mitch became a rushing whirlpool of sensation; his hands felt frozen, his legs like they were being electrocuted, and his throat--

Mitchell's throat burned as the force of dragonrend was imprinted into his being. He understood then, the power it held. One moment he was Gormlaith, shouting insults at Alduin. The next he was Alduin himself, feeling panic overwhelm him as he felt for the first time what it truly was to be _mortal._

He'd had an existential crisis before. Several. Nothing quite triggered one like feeling a dragon feel so utterly human. Fear washed through him, binding him to the ground as Dragonrend bound itself to his voice. The panic was so overwhelming that Mitchell barely recognized the time wound ripping open, sending Alduin crashing through the same temporal waves that Mitchell himself would never remember falling through himself. 

There was just enough awareness in Mitchell left to catch Felldir’s parting words.

__May the spirits have mercy on us all._ _

\---

Mitchell stumbled when the vision released him. The scroll rolled up and was sent clattering to the ground when Mitchell let go. Farkas was by his side in a heartbeat, steadying him, anchoring him, as Lydia drew her sword. 

“There!” She roared, and Alduin roared back. 

It didn't take anything more to snap Michell from his groggy state and send him right into overdrive. 

“It's fucking time!” He spat, grabbing and gripping his spear until his knuckles turned white. “Let’s shank this asshole.”

Farkas drew his own blade and nodded gravely. “I will follow you no matter what may come, dragonborn.”

_“FOOLISH JOOR!”_ Alduin snarled. 

Simultaneously, without hesitation, Mitch and Paarthurnax charged forth. As Mitch jumped up to a better vantage point, Paarthurnax took to the sky. 

“Use dragonrend, if you can!” Paarthurnax screeched, diving in at Alduin just enough to make using dragonrend a bit more difficult. 

A bit. 

Mitchell's first attempt ripped through him, scorched his throat and tongue, and blasted directly into Paarthurnax’s side. 

Well, fuck. 

At least he was out of the way for now. Alduin jeered, his laughter booming like thunder over the skies. Mitchell’s response was a swift shot from his bow, aimed at Alduin’s soft underbelly. Until Mitchell’s throat stopped burning and he could form words again, he pelted arrow after arrow at the dragon above him. The benefit of said dragon being a huge motherfucker was that none of Mitchell’s arrows missed.

The downside was that the arrows seemed to be doing very little against that huge motherfucker anyways. 

As soon as Mitchell felt his throat clear up and his voice return to him, he fell back and to the left, aiming his voice upwards as he shouted loud and clear at Alduin. _“JOOR ZAH FRUL!”_

Paarthurnax had stayed out of the way this time, leaving ample room for the shout to hit Alduin and send him spiralling. Farkas and Lydia were on him the moment he collided with the icy ground. Their swords slashed at his scales, Lydia hacking into Alduin’s leg while Farkas stabbed at the junction between wing and shoulder. The two worked fiercely to disable Alduin while they had the chance, clearing the way for Mitchell to sprint forward with his spear clenched tight in his fist. 

Mitchell lunged for Alduin’s throat, jamming his spear upwards and successfully piercing through the side of his neck and getting it stuck. Alduin reared back his head with a screech of pain that echoed over the mountain. Even as he took off, Mitchell clung tightly to the spear, ascending with Alduin. 

He scrambled up the spear shaft, gripping Alduin’s scales and swinging himself onto the beast’s back. Both were thrashed wildly about as Alduin tried to shake Mitchell off of him so he could attack him properly. No matter how hard he tried, Alduin could not dislodge Mitchell. The pesky _mortal_ held on for dear life, one hand dug deep under a loosened scale and the other still white-knuckled around his spear. _Oh, so that was the mortal’s game…_

Alduin stilled his thrashing enough for Mitchell to finally yank his spear free. For just a moment, Mitchell felt like he might be able to do something right. Alduin’s next thrash promptly sent those feelings out the window. It also coincidentally sent Mitchell flying off of his back and into the open air. 

Well, fuck.

Two could play at that game. _”JOOR ZAH FRUL, BITCH!”_

Icarus was falling, so naturally he had to take the Sun down with him. Served that fiery asshole right. And if Icarus was potentially about to get crushed by the Sun he was bringing down, well… something something, poetic bullshit. It would make a funny story.

Farkas disagreed on that, which was why he stuck himself underneath the falling pair and swiftly caught Mitchell before he could crash, and then sidestepped for good measure. Mitchell went from screaming to shouting in a heartbeat.

_“FUS RO DAH!”_

The force sent Mitchell and Farkas flying backwards, pushing them away from Alduin and knocking his body against the Word Wall. The stone split down the middle with a resounding crack that could be heard for miles. The jagged edges glowed a faint blue behind Alduin as lightning filled the skies, only for the glow to fade when the first bolt struck right in front of Alduin’s face. 

“I WILL FEAST ON YOUR SOUL IN SOVNGA _ARRRRRRRRRRRRRRGH!”_

Alduin’s call was cut off by a well-packed snowball to the eyes. Lydia let out a battle-cry worthy of the old Tongues as she picked her sword back up and charged forward towards the dragon whose metaphorical windshield she’d just fucked up.

“THAT’S MY GIRL!” Mitchell yelled with pride, hopping down from Farkas’s arms to rush forward with Lydia.

Farkas was on Mitchell’s heels, his wolfish nature beginning to shine through as he snarled and bared his teeth. Alduin snarled right back. This time, the intimidation didn’t work. Farkas and Lydia both took chunks of scales from Alduin’s shoulders and face, sending blood and gore to the ground. The snow melted where chunks landed, smoke curled up from the now-bare spots, blood seeped into stone and stained everything it touched. 

Hope surged through Mitchell as he drove his spear into Alduin’s right eye, trying to push it far enough to reach the Alduin’s brain. Instead, Alduin pulled backwards, and Mitchell’s spear pulled out. None of the millions of jokes that Mitchell could’ve made in that moment occurred to him in that moment. At the time in question, Mitch was a little preoccupied with the fact that, < _i > oh jesus fucking christ that’s ALDUIN’S FUCKING RIGHT EYE PLUNGED ON HIS SPEAR LIKE A GODDAMN TROUT HOLY SHIT._

Alduin spat blood onto the snow in his rage, taking off immediately. His swooping of wings made the three humans stumble on shaky legs, and was even sudden enough to make Paarthurnax falter. From above Alduin let out a roar of pain and fury.

“Meyz mul, Dovahkiin.” He cried. “You have become strong. But I am Al-du-in, Firstborn of Akatosh! Mulaagi zok lot! I cannot be slain here, by you or anyone else! You cannot prevail against me. I will outlast you... _mortal!”_

And in a flurry of black wings and smoke, Alduin rushed off into the evening sky, leaving three great heroes and a wise dragon in stunned silence.

It took only a minute after Alduin had disappeared from sight for Mitchell to break through the stupor with a horrified pterodactyl screech.

“YOU SPINELESS, SOULLESS, SON OF A _BITCH!_ GET YOUR STUPID ASS BACK HERE RIGHT FUCKING NOW YOU BIG FAT FUCK I SWEAR TO FUCKING CHRIST I WILL GUT YOU RIGHT GODDAMN HERE! DON’T YOU FUCKING FLY OFF ON ME YOU ABSOLUTE-” 

Farkas and Lydia still stood frozen, but now their eyes had directed themselves to Mitchell’s raging form. He was violently waving his spear in the air, the eye of Alduin wobbling atop it as Mitch cursed the dragon six ways from Sundas. 

“I DID NOT COME THIS FAR JUST FOR YOUR WHINY BITCH ASS TO QUIT JUST CAUSE YOU LOST AN EYE. BOOHOO MOTHERFUCKER, I LOST MY GODDAMN HOME SO-” 

Paarthurnax seemed to flinch. “Dragonborn!” 

“- I’M GONNA SHOVE THIS FUCKING SPEAR IN YOUR OTHER EYE NEXT, BITCH. I’M-”

“Dragonborn!” 

“-ASSHOLE!! THIS FUCKING-”

“MITCHELL!” Lydia growled, and promptly slapped Mitchell across the face.

It was a fairly gentle hit, thankfully, else Mitchell might’ve dropped dead then and there. 

“He can’t hear you anymore. He’s gone.” Farkas said, as calmly as he can muster. “You can stop.”

“If not for your own sake, then for the poor Greybeards’ sakes.” Lydia advised. “Great mental images. Less great on top of a holy place, yeah?”

Mitchell rubbed his face and took a long, deep breath, and then announced in one exhale; “I’m going to fucking throw myself off of this mountain Jesus fucking Christ.”

His fists shook, jiggling the eye on his spear again. Lydia swiftly relieved him of it and took the spear herself, eyeing the eye cautiously. Mitchell might’ve protested being parted from his spear, if not for Farkas’s hand squeezing his shoulder and reminding him to take slow, even breaths. 

“This is not our last fight against him.” Farkas reassured. “We’ll take the fight to Sovngarde if we have to, and we’ll make our ancestors proud to watch us fight.” 

He spoke quietly but fiercely, and Mitchell couldn’t help himself but lean in and knock their foreheads together. “I’ve come so far, just for this too… I got my hopes up, buddy. I fucked up.” He whispered. 

“Hoping is not fucking up. Hoping is being able to get back up after you get hit with this shit.” Farkas replied, pulling off his glove to smooth out Mitchell’s wild curls. 

“We will do this.” Lydia agreed. “We just need to regroup and plan.” 

Mitchell cracked a smile and leaned in a little closer to Farkas, while reaching out to Lydia to pull her into the group hug. “Right. We’ll find out how to get to fucking Sovngarde, and when we do we’re going to take Alduin’s other eye and hopefully his life.” 

Paarthurnax’s tail swished slowly as he exhaled. “Very inspiring, Dovahkiin. There is hope as well… A way to capture, to trap a dov, another dragon… one who can take you where my wings cannot.” 

The group hug broke off as Lydia and Farkas both looked to Paarthurnax in both confusion and partial understanding. “Dragonsreach?” They both questioned simultaneously.

Mitchell looked between the other three long and hard before Lydia took pity on him. 

“Remember the tale of Olaf One-Eye? How Dragonsreach was a trap?”

Jeopardy music jingled in Mitchell’s mind for another good minute before he clued in. Personally, he blamed the nerves. “... oh. Oh! So we catch ourselves a dragon to ferry us off?”

“Simply put.” Paarthurnax nodded slowly.

Adapting a southern hick twang, Mitchell threw his arms around Lydia and Farkas’s shoulders. “Well, yeehaw fuckos! We’re gonna catch ourselves a real live dragon and ride that bitch to heaven, absolutely nothing can go wrong eeeeeyup!” 

Farkas cringed. “Mitch….. Please, never do that accent again. Please.” 

Smirking, Lydia shook her head. “I’m inclined to agree. I doubt it will help us sway Jarl Balgruuf into using his home as a dragon trap.” 

Mitchell’s face fell. “Wait, we’re gonna have to talk good old Jarl Ballin’ into this…”

“Yes, my thane, presumably.” 

In perfect time the three humans spoke. 

“Well, _fuck._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter this time around lads.


	26. Don't Awoo - 350$ Penalty

Mitchell had this whole spiel prepared on why Jarl Balgruuf should let him use his home as a dragon trap. He'd practiced it on the entire carriage ride to Whiterun, going through it over and over until he could present an argument decent enough to possibly sway the Jarl. Were Skyrim a perfect realm, those points Mitch hit would've blown Balgruuf right away and would've convinced him. And yet, even with all of the effort poured into Mitchell’s arguments, he still left out one very important factor.

“And I'm supposed to play host to a dragon while the Stormcloaks and the Imperials are both stalking at my doors?” Balgruuf gave Mitchell a sharp look, one he assumed was meant as a reprimand.

 

Wincing, Mitchell shook his head. “I mean… okay, yeah, point taken. Shit.”

Jarl Balgruuf rubbed at his temples and let out a huff. “I want to help you, Dragonborn, I truly do. But I cannot allow my city to be vulnerable while a war rages on. If we could end this conflict, or at least draw a truce, then perhaps it could be done… As it is, Whiterun is in no state to take that risk.”

Nodding, Mitch scratched his stubble. “Well, I guess we gotta add ‘end the war’ to the old bucket list then.”

“I know you’re most likely being sarcastic-”

“I'm dead serious my dude.”

“-but if anyone could end this war, then it's the Dragonborn.” Balgruuf offered a small smile. “Speak with the Greybeards. Perhaps they can offer aid in that front.”

\---

Speaking with the Greybeards would be one thing. Hitching yet another carriage was different. Mitch’s head was starting to get dizzy from all of the travelling. He needed time to think, time to catch his breath. He sent letters instead of leaving once more; one to the Greybeards, one to the Blades, and one to Brynden Stark.

Jorrvaskr seemed the best place for a breather, so after handing Alduin’s right eyeball over to a very excited Farengar, that's where Mitch headed. He wanted a break. A long one. He got about fifteen minutes at best.

Ah, Skyrim. She always had something that needed to be done.

\---

Aela lingered in the doorway of Farkas’s private quarters, watching Mitchell attempt to pull himself away from Farkas’s bed with all the grace of a drunken raccoon. When Aela had asked to borrow him, Farkas had shot her a pout cute enough to melt a frost atronach. It almost made her reconsider.

She didn't. She was doing this for Farkas. He could deal with not having his dragonborn around for a few hours, especially since he'd spent the last few weeks constantly by his side. He could cope.

Mitchell followed Aela to the Underforge obediently, holding his questions in like she'd advised. It was hard, what with suddenly being presented with a stone font of blood and a deadly serious look from Skjor. Mitch felt that creeping feeling of “this is about to get Super Fucking Weird” come over him.

Aela stripping out of her armor only intensified that.

“Hey, listen I'm always down for a good old fashioned strip show, but-”

Mitchell cut himself off as the very appealing naked woman in front of him shifted her form. Hair spurted out along her back, her nails sharpened into claws, and Mitchell screwed his eyes shut and winced. “Jesus Christ, Aela what-”

“This is a gift to you.” Skjor interrupted calmly. “Aela will be your forebear. It is her blood that will allow you to truly join our circle.”

Mitchell opened his eyes again and shook his head. “Ah, no. Nope. Not happening. I'm fine being one rung below the cool kids.”

Skjor cocked an eyebrow. “There is no shame in our abilities, Mitchell. It's not the curse Vilkas makes it out to be.”

Still, Mitch backed away. “Yeah, yeah I get that. But I wanna get home. When I eventually do, I can't be a werewolf.”

Skjor narrowed his eyes. “Are you sure?”

“Hundred percent. I'll do whatever else you had planned, but the werewolf thing won't work. Can't take that risk, bud. I don't wanna put my family in danger like that.” Mitch insisted.

“Hm.” Was all Skjor said.

Aela whined, knocking her head into Skjor’s arm and then nodding. Skjor looked doubtful, but ultimately gave in to her judgement.

“...Aela seems to agree with you. I admit, you raise a rational point. I suppose for you we can make an exception.”

Mitch breathed a cautious sigh of relief. “Thanks for seeing it my way. What else did you need?”

Skjor and Aela shared a look before Skjor turned back to Mitchell. “We need your help avenging Farkas’s honour, shield brother.”

\---

They left through the backdoor, Skjor charging ahead in his wolf form, howling to the full moons. Aela trailed slightly behind, her own howl following his in perfect rhyme. Mitchell sat astride her back, his hands fisted in her fur, his bow slung over his shoulder and his spear on his back.

The Silver Hand had struck first. Skjor, Aela, and Mitchell rode off on the path to get their revenge.

It was a little more intense than Mitchell’s old hunting trips with his grandfather to “find the sumbitch hare who took grampy’s lucky coin,” though Mitchell felt it had similar motives. Pride was a funny thing.

\---

Skjor took point when they broke into the Silver Hand’s basis of operations. He charged in headfirst, while a human again Aela slunk into the shadows with Mitchell. When the Silver Hand tried to strike and Skjor, Aela and Mitchell burst forth and took them out in a flash of silver and steel.

They continued through the fort in that manner, taking man and wolf alike by surprise as they dispatched anyone who attacked them. The wolves locked away in rusty cages were quick to flee when Aela set them free. No more than a glance was offered as they made their escape. Mitchell let them go, ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach as Aela called him back to attention.

“We've lost Skjor- he's impatient, he must've run ahead.” Aela said softly, crouching as she and Mitchell took to the next hall. “He can't have gone far, but we need to catch up before-”

A howl like thunder ripped through the fort, cutting Aela off and causing her to seize up and snarl. “We need to catch up _now!_ ”

Mitch didn't hear another word out of her as she took off once more, leading him through room after room, taking down Silver Hand in each room. With each arrow that pierced a Silver Hand’s armor and laid them low, Mitch hoped Brynden would be proud. He might've sought Aela’s approval as well had it not been for the fury in her eyes that made Mitch scared to say anything to her.

Their trail ended at the fort’s headquarters. The door had already been busted open by a rampaging wolf, who stood ahead of them on hind legs, letting out a yowl that made Mitchell’s hair stand on end. Aela bristled, letting out a war cry that rivalled any dragon’s thu’um.

It was then that the wolf- that Skjor- stumbled backwards, collapsing in a heap as the gasp of air was sucked from his lungs. Beast became man over a series of sharp intakes of breath and tortured grunts. Aela and Mitchell turned their gaze in horror to see Krev the Skinner wielding a silver sword dripping with Skjor’s still warm blood.

“YOU’LL BURN FOR THIS YOU SON OF A BITCH!” Aela roared, tossing aside all weaponry as she shifted from woman to wolf.

Her armor split at the seams, her cry turned to a piercing howl, and Aela lunged for Krev’s throat. He had been lucky with Skjor. He would not see the same fortune with Aela.

He would not see the same fortune with Mitchell. Krev tried to back away, tried to avoid Aela’s attack. Mitchell’s swift running kick to his shin swept his legs out from under him, sending him toppling to the stone floor. Krev couldn't avoid Aela’s claws ripping into him, tearing his flesh into bloodied strips as Mitchell rushed to Skjor’s side.

Skjor was dead before Mitchell reached him. Dead. Staring up at the ceiling with blank glassy eyes, his mouth open with the ghost of his last gasp on his lips. Mitchell blanched, forcing himself to calm down and count his breaths. With shaking hands he closed Skjor’s eyes. With a sick feeling in his stomach, he turned to face Aela. Her snout brushed at his shoulder as she pushed past him to briefly nuzzle at Skjor’s neck.

Pulling back, Aela sat on her haunches and let out a mournful howl. Mitch was trembling even as he stepped back from Skjor’s body. He turned to glance at the mutilated corpse of Krev the Skinner, and nearly threw up when he saw. Mitch’s stomach flipped and his eyes watered, but still he stepped forward, inching closer to the corpse.

Though he'd never seen fit to use the words before, Mitchell called them up as easily as opening his lips. A breath, and then-

_“Yol.”_

As Mitchell’s throat burned, so did Krev the Skinner’s lifeless body.

Aela whined at his elbow, nudging it ever so slightly. Mitchell looked over to her with nothing but pure regret on his face. “You said he'd burn. He's burning.” He told her softly.

Aela whined. Mitchell bit his lip and rubbed at his eyes.

“C’mon. We need to get Skjor home.”

\---

Skjor’s funeral pyre had been built over the Skyforge, like the Companions who had gone before him. It was a quiet, somber event. The mist that dropped from the sky couldn't hide the tears that slid heavy from everyone's eyes. Smoke rose into foreboding grey skies.

Mitchell needed to get away.

He hid out in the training yard for the better part of the afternoon, not letting the gentle rain soaking through his hoodie deter him. He was protected from most of it anyway, with the arrow target blocking the wind from blowing the worst of it his way. He hugged his knees to his chest and tried to focus on his breathing.

That was where Kodlak found him, two hours later, half-soaked and staring at the wall, eyes glazed over and unfocused. He was lost in his own head. A gentle touch to his shoulder was enough to snap him from his reverie. Perhaps it was more than enough.

“I'm sorry.” Mitchell blurted, jumping from the touch as if he'd been hit by lightning.

“For what?” Kodlak asked gently, extending a hand to help Mitchell up.

Mitch but his lip as he accepted the hand. “I should've never agreed to Skjor's plan. I should've stayed-”

“Behind? Away? And let Aela fall along with Skjor?” Kodlak sighed and shook his head. “The plan was rash, I’m aware. But It does not do well to dwell on what ifs and forget that what is.”

“‘What is’ is that Skjor’s dead, and he didn't have to be.” Mitchell murmured.

“How do you know that?” Kodlak asked.

That gave Mitch pause. “What… what do you mean? We just set up his pyre. He's dead.”

“And how do you know he wasn't meant to be?”

In sensing an upcoming outburst, Kodlak quickly ushered Mitchell into the privacy of the Underforge. Mitchell’s bottom lip stayed firmly under his teeth until they were under the shelter of stone.

“Because I'm not meant to be here.” Mitchell exhaled finally.

Kodlak cocked an eyebrow. “I have a feeling that's not all. Sit with me a moment, and explain your line of thought to me.”

Sat upon the stone, Mitchell vented.

“Fucking months I’ve been here now, all because I got drunk and went to the attic to look for Narnia because I’m apparently a fuckin’ toddler on tequila. And I fuckin’ find Narnia in the wardrobe, except it’s Skyrim in the lodge attic and there’s no turkish delight or talking lions, there’s just. Giant fucking spiders and talking fucking dragons and goddamn it, I can barely kill a spider on my bedroom floor without having a panic attack, yet apparently I’m the only one who can save you all. I can’t even kill a spider, Kodlak. I’ve killed a dragon now. I’ve took out the big ass dragon’s fucking eye. I still nearly shit myself every time I see a tiny ass spider!”

He took a deep breath before shaking his head and continuing.

“Every night I go to sleep thinking I’ll wake up in bed in my shitty apartment with it’s shitty water pressure and the shitty cell reception, and then every morning I wake up here again and I don’t know how to feel. This’d be so much easier if it was all a dream, and I wished for so goddamn long that it was just a dream, but…”

“But now that you’ve accepted this as your reality, you worry about the friends you’ll leave behind. You want to go home because you feel Earth is still your home, but every day you stay here makes it harder to leave.” Kodlak finished for him.

Mitchell gulped. “Yeah. Yeah, that just about sums it up.”

Kodlak gave a gentle smile. “So it was never really about spiders.”

All Mitchell could do was stare blankly. After about two minutes, he gave a flat “Dude.”

Shrugging, Kodlak patted his shoulder. “You can do this, ‘dude.’ You will find your home again. You belong to two worlds now, and whichever you choose, your family in each will understand.”

“I… If you say so.” Mitch sighed, scratching at his stubble.

“I know so.” Kodlak said firmly. “Now, your troubled thoughts on Skjor’s passing…”

“Yeah…”

“He knew what he was getting into, Mitchell. Each and every Circle member knows the danger of facing down the Silver Hand. Skjor’s choices are not yours, and his death is no one’s fault but Krev the Skinner’s.” Kodlak took a breath before continuing. “You avenged your fallen shield brother. You did all you could for him in this life, and all he could want for is in the next. He wouldn’t have wanted this to hold you down.”

Mitchell smiled a bittersweet smile. “Yeah, I guess so…”

“The hunting grounds were always his favoured end, as well as Aela’s. It seems the rest of our companions have resigned themselves to that fate, unless…”

With every passing second after that pause, Mitch could feel the Gandalf-wheels spinning in Kodlak’s mind.

“... You cannot aid Skjor any further, my friend. But should you wish to help the others, I believe I have a task that will help put some of your other worries to rest. Tell me, how much do you know of the Companions curse and the Glenmoril Witches?”


End file.
